Northern Atlantic islands and the sea seascapes and dreamscapes 9781443855129, 144385512X, 9781443892681, 1443892688

Table of contents :
Contents
List of Tables and Figures
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Bibliography
Contributors
Index

Citation preview

Northern Atlantic Islands and the Sea

Northern Atlantic Islands and the Sea: Seascapes and Dreamscapes Edited by

Andrew Jennings, Silke Reeploeg and Angela Watt

Northern Atlantic Islands and the Sea: Seascapes and Dreamscapes Edited by Andrew Jennings, Silke Reeploeg and Angela Watt This book first published 2017 Cambridge Scholars Publishing Lady Stephenson Library, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE6 2PA, UK British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Copyright © 2017 by Andrew Jennings, Silke Reeploeg, Angela Watt and contributors All rights for this book reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. ISBN (10): 1-4438-5512-X ISBN (13): 978-1-4438-5512-9

CONTENTS

List of Tables and Figures ......................................................................... vii Chapter One ................................................................................................. 1 Introduction Andrew Jennings and Silke Reeploeg Chapter Two .............................................................................................. 10 On the Border: The Liminality of the Seashore in Icelandic Folk Legends Terry Gunnell Chapter Three ............................................................................................ 32 Sanctity and the Sea Ásdís Egilsdóttir Chapter Four .............................................................................................. 43 From “Ísland” to “Eyland”: Islands and Identity in Medieval Iceland Torfi H. Tulinius Chapter Five .............................................................................................. 54 Insularity in the Old Norse Íslendingasögur Anna Katharina Heiniger Chapter Six ................................................................................................ 82 The Roles of the Islands in Áns saga Bogsveigis Martina Ceolin Chapter Seven............................................................................................ 97 Outlaws of the Northern Seas: A Comparison in the Norse Corpus Marion Poilvez Chapter Eight ........................................................................................... 113 The Moder Dy: Steering by the Waves in Shetland’s Seas Ian Napier

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Contents

Chapter Nine............................................................................................ 125 Crossing to the Other Side: Representing the Journey of Life in Neolithic Shetland Simon Clarke Chapter Ten ............................................................................................. 140 “Cast your Light upon the Water”: The Legacy of Lighthouses as Locations for Cultural Illumination Angela Watt Chapter Eleven ........................................................................................ 154 In Aboot Da Night wi da Erasmusons: An Island Family’s Beliefs and Lore Jennifer Murray Chapter Twelve ....................................................................................... 169 Resisting Impressment in Orkney and Shetland Kim Burns Chapter Thirteen ...................................................................................... 180 Landscapes, Seascapes and Dreamscapes of War from Old Norse Literature in “Sigrid Storråda” (Valkyrie) by Selma Lagerlöf Victoria Lesley Ralph Chapter Fourteen ..................................................................................... 195 Islands of Significance: Authenticity and Visitor Experience at the Heart of Neolithic Orkney World Heritage Site Esther Renwick Chapter Fifteen ........................................................................................ 215 A Preliminary Exploration of the Norse Influence on Gaelic Maritime Terminology Gavin Parsons Bibliography ............................................................................................ 227 Contributors ............................................................................................. 252 Index ........................................................................................................ 256

LIST OF TABLES AND FIGURES

Table 8.1 Average Wave Sizes ................................................................ 118 Table 15.1 Gaelic Seabird Names ........................................................... 219 Table 15.2 Gaelic Fish and Fishing Terms .............................................. 220 Table 15.3 Gaelic Boat Part Names ......................................................... 221 Table 15.4 Gaelic Boat Handling Terms ................................................. 221 Table 15.5 Gaelic Sea State Terms .......................................................... 222 Table 15.6 Gaelic Boat Terms Not Borrowed from Old Norse ............... 222 Figure 5.1: The Cottonian Map (before 1050 AD) .................................... 71 Figure 5.2: Detail from The Cottonian Map .............................................. 72 Figure 5.3: Map from St. John’s College, Oxford (c.1100 AD) ................ 73 Figure 5.4: Detail from the St. John’s College Map .................................. 74 Figure 5.5: The Henry of Mainz or Corpus Map (late twelfth/early thirteenth century) ................................................................................ 75 Figure 5.6: Detail from the Henry of Mainz Map ...................................... 76 Figure 8.1: Principal Surface Ocean Currents around Shetland .............. 117 Figure 8.2: Conjectured Orientations of Long Wavelength Swell Waves approaching Shetland ............................................................. 121 Figure 9.1: Mavis Grind Isthmus from the Southwest ............................. 126 Figure 9.2: Mavis Grind Location Map ................................................... 127 Figure 9.3: Map of the Islesburgh Neolithic Landscape .......................... 128 Figure 9.4: Panoramic View of the Islesburgh Neolithic Landscape and Mavis Grind from the South........................................................ 130 Figure 9.5 (a and b): Tomb and Enclosure Compared, Views from the Southwest ..................................................................................... 131 Figure 9.6: (a and b): Front and Rear Views of Islesburgh Tomb, from the SSE and NNW Respectively ............................................... 132 Figure 9.7: Enclosing Hills and D-shaped Enclosure Compared............. 133 Figure 9.8: Chamber of the Passage Grave.............................................. 134 Figure 9.9: View from Islesburgh Tomb: ESE to Sullom Voe ................ 135 Figure 9.10: View from Islesburgh Tomb: SW to the Minn .................... 136 Figure 9.11: View over Islesburgh Farmstead: ESE to the Minn ............ 136 Figure 9.12: View from Islesburgh Farmstead: SSW to the Minn .......... 137 Figure 9.13: House and Tomb Sight Lines to the Sea ............................. 137 Figure 10.1: Bressay Lighthouse, Painting by Jim Tait, 2014 ................. 146

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List of Tables and Figures

Figure 10.2: Ron Birnie at Muckle Flugga Lighthouse ........................... 149 Figure 10.3: Children at Fair Isle South Lighthouse, c1975 .................... 149 Figure 10.4: Old Keeper’s Cottage Redesigned, Sumburgh Head........... 151 Figure 10.5: Official Opening, Sumburgh Head Interpretative Centre.... 151 Figure 11.1: Erik Erasmuson’s Family Home ......................................... 156 Figure 11.2: Four Generations of the Erasmuson Family ........................ 156 Figure 11.3: Hand Line Fishing, West of Mavis Grind ........................... 160 Figure 11.4: The Ruins of the St Ninian’s Isle Chapel ............................ 163 Figure 11.5: Cross Kirk, Eshaness ........................................................... 164 Figure 11.6: Bronze Horse Charm from Cross Kirk, Eshaness ............... 164 Figure 14.1: Maeshowe Chambered Tomb.............................................. 199 Figure 14.2: The World Heritage Sites, Buffer Zones and Designated Sensitive Areas .................................................................................. 201 Figure 14.3: WHS Inscription Area at Skara Brae .................................. 202 Figure 14.4: Excavations at the Ness of Brodgar .................................... 202 Figure 14.5: Interpretation Panel ............................................................. 203 Figure 14.6: The Route to Maeshowe...................................................... 204 Figure 14.7: Houses at Skara Brae .......................................................... 205 Figure 14.8: Visitors “Playing” at the Stones of Stenness ....................... 206 Figure 14.9: Visitor at the Ring of Brodgar ............................................. 206 Figure 14.10: The Barnhouse Stone ........................................................ 207 Figure 14.11: Words used in Tripadvisor Review ................................... 209

CHAPTER ONE INTRODUCTION

The Sea has brought Shetlanders into contact with other cultures and, at times, it has isolated them from developments elsewhere. For periods in its history Shetland has been stereotypically remote and inaccessible, but, on other occasions, it has been well connected and has held a central position at the junction of the North Sea and the Atlantic Ocean. For three days in April 2014, when the Islands hosted an international, multi-disciplinary Conference, organised by the University of the Highlands and Islands’ Centre for Nordic Studies and entitled The Northern Isles and the Sea, Shetland was again at the heart of the North Atlantic sea-lanes. Scholars from Canada, the USA and Iceland, from the UK and Norway, congregated in Lerwick, Shetland’s capital, to discuss the themes of North Atlantic maritime traditions, island narratives and disciplinary crosscurrents from the Neolithic period through the Viking Age to the present day. A selection of the sixty-three papers given form the Chapters of this book, Northern Atlantic Islands and the Sea: Seascapes and Dreamscapes. The Conference themes were chosen to reflect the reality of Shetland’s cultural identity and maritime position. Shetland has a strong strand of Nordic cultural and linguistic heritage, connecting her (this seems the only appropriate pronoun) to the other Northern Atlantic Islands - the Faroes and Iceland. She is also surrounded by the ever-present dominating presence of the Atlantic Ocean. Shetland is the only truly isolated archipelago in the British Isles, being a twelve-hour ferry voyage from Aberdeen. Here, unlike one’s experience on any other British island, if one stood on the shore looking to the horizon, one would not glimpse any hint of a mainland coast or distant mountains. One would only see the Ocean. Unsurprisingly, the Atlantic has been a constant in Shetland’s history, influencing the Islanders’ customs and forging a unique way of life dependent on its riches. In days past, Shetlanders understood and could read the surrounding seas, just as landlubbers might read the land. A good example of this deep empathy with the Ocean is discussed in Chapter Eight, The Moder Dy: Steering by the Waves in Shetland’s Seas, by Dr Ian Napier of the North Atlantic Fisheries College, University of the

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Chapter One

Highlands and Islands. He explores the mysterious phenomenon of the Moder Dy (mother swell), which eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Shetland fishermen used to find their way back to land in poor visibility. The Shetlanders’ ability to read the Sea was also highlighted at the Conference by Charlie Simpson1, Shetland’s local maritime expert, in his talk about fishing meids. Meids were the traditional means by which Shetland fishermen would locate their fishing grounds or navigate safe routes avoiding hazards. They are observed transects, where two onshore landmarks are brought into line with the eye of the observer at sea. Today the Sea, through fishing and fish-farming, still has an immense impact on Shetland’s way of life and her economy. Lerwick is the second largest port for whitefish landings in the UK. According to a recent study,2 175 active commercial fishing vessels are based in the Islands; more pelagic and whitefish were landed in Shetland in 2012 than in all of England and Wales combined. In the same year, 46,220 tonnes of salmon, valued at £115 million, were farmed and £112.3 million worth of fish was landed. Aquaculture (salmon and mussels) is the largest economic sector in Shetland, responsible for £156 million of Shetland's output. Indeed 69% of all Scottish mussels are grown in Shetland. Many Shetlanders’ dreams of success and economic well-being are tied intimately to the fruitful harvesting of the riches of the Sea. From the late eighteenth century until 1963, those dreams included hunting the whale. During the twentieth century, Shetlanders were heavily involved in Antarctic whaling: many thousands of men travelled the length of the Atlantic from their home Islands to the mountainous, polar island of South Georgia, working for Salvesen & Co3. In a paper at the Conference, Dr Andrew Jennings of the Centre for Nordic Studies explored the artefacts and intangible cultural heritage which still survive today in Shetland from the great days of Arctic whaling, when Shetlanders’ horizons expanded to include the Davis Straits, Baffin Island and the icy coast of Greenland. Lerwick was a vital port for the taking on of crew and provisions. It is hard to over-emphasise the importance of whaling to Shetland at this time. Shetlanders were highly sought after by the whaling captains to make up the crew. This was largely due to their boat-handling expertise and their musical abilities: whalers enjoyed being entertained with Shetland fiddle tunes. In 1825, as many as 1400 Shetlanders were aboard 70 whaling vessels. Even as late as 1874, when the Arctic fishery was long past its peak, there were still 600 to 700 men employed in this dangerous, yet exciting trade.4 This was a sizeable proportion of Shetland’s working-age population. Shetland Museum has a number of artefacts brought back by the whalers, including

Introduction

3

yakki-cashes, Inuit-made seal-skin tobacco pouches and model kayaks. They also have a steatite quilliq, which is a soapstone lamp or stove, and a pana, a snow knife found under the eaves of an old Shetland house. The Museum's archive includes a photograph of a ramshackle structure which once stood in Symbister on the Island of Whalsay, called the Tuppik, the Inuit word for a hut, bearing witness to linguistic contact between Shetlanders and Inuit5. Perhaps a Whalsay whaler was dreaming of good times remembered in the Arctic snows. It was not only whaling captains who appreciated the seamanship of the Shetlanders. It also did not escape the notice of the Admiralty and large numbers of men from Shetland served in Nelson’s navy during the French Wars from 1800 to 1815. Many joined unwillingly, being pressed into service. In Chapter Twelve, Resisting Impressment, Kim Burns explores folktales about the press gang in Orkney and Shetland. Hoidyhols can still be pointed out today where young men hid for fear of being taken. It is difficult to imagine an island or treacherous coast without calling to mind the image of the lighthouse. The days of the manned lighthouse may be over, however this does not diminish their appeal. In Chapter Ten, Cast Your Light Upon the Water, Dr Angela Watt, herself from a lighthouse keeper’s family, explores their continuing allure for artists, writers and tourists. For those who desire to get as close to Shetland’s seascape as possible, there are three lighthouses which can be rented as accommodation. For others, the Ocean conjures up feelings of fear: what creatures swim unseen beneath the surface? In Chapter Thirteen, Old Norse Dreamscapes and Seascapes of War, Victoria Ralph discusses how, in her reimagining of the Viking Age Swedish Queen Sigríðr in stórráða, Selma Lagerlöf identifies the Ocean with Hell. Whether Heaven or Hell, from the time of its first settlement in the Neolithic, until Norse colonies were established in the Faroe Islands and Iceland during the ninth century, Shetland was the outermost edge of the inhabited world, being, from a Mediterranean perspective, the last inhabited land in north-west Europe. In 84 AD, when the Roman fleet, which was circumnavigating Britain for its Governor Agricola, rounded Orkney, Shetland was identified as legendary Thule, described by the Greek explorer Pytheas centuries earlier. However, despite its apparent peripherality, Shetland has a rich archaeological heritage. In Chapter Nine, Crossing to the Other Side: Representing the Journey of Life in Neolithic Shetland, Dr Simon Clarke takes a phenomenographic approach to the understanding of the Neolithic built landscape around Mavis Grind, the narrowest point on the Shetland mainland. The extraordinary archaeological

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Chapter One

heritage of Shetland’s nearest neighbour Orkney is well known, and its impact on the visitor is discussed in Chapter Fourteen, Islands of Significance: Authenticity and Visitor Experience at the Heart of Neolithic Orkney World Heritage Site, by Esther Renwick. Orkney also formed the topic of Dr James Barrett’s keynote speech about his excavation of the high status Norse settlement at Deerness. This has rewritten our understanding of the Norse period in the Northern Isles6. The Norse were fortifying and living on stack-sites in both Orkney and Shetland, which viewsheds indicate commanded the surrounding seas. Unsurprisingly, given the strong cultural and historical connections between North Atlantic insular communities, an academic conference in Shetland held particular appeal for scholars from Iceland. Both Shetland and Iceland were settled by the Norse in the latter part of the ninth century. They were particularly closely connected between 1262 and 1469, when both formed part of Norgesveldet, the dominion of the Norwegian kings7. Until the demise of Shetland Norn in the eighteenth century, Shetland and Iceland spoke related languages and, just like Iceland, studies of Shetland’s folklore show a strong Norse imprint. In Chapter Eleven In aboot da night wi da Erasmusons, Jenny Murray reveals the current state of survival of traditional folklore within one Shetland family. The Icelanders made a significant contribution to the Conference and consequently to this book. Terry Gunnell, Professor of Folkloristics at the University of Iceland, who has carried out important research into Shetland’s folklore heritage8, delivered a keynote speech entitled On the Border: The Liminality of the Seashore in Icelandic Folk Legends of the Past. This forms a major Chapter in this volume. In Chapter Two, Professor Gunnell discusses the strange events and creatures which have been experienced on the Icelandic coast, that chaotic liminal zone where the wild and the civilised, the human and the animal, come into intimate contact and are melded together, where beings such as the Hairy Man of Skarði, who was discovered on the Meðalland sands in the south of Iceland, are revealed. This blending of animal and human at the shore has a Shetlandic cognate in the story about the Sands of Breckon on the Island of Yell, where an unfortunate girl fell asleep and, while unconscious, was raped by a seal,9 giving birth to a half-seal, half-human baby boy nine months later. In Chapter Three, Sanctity and the Sea, a related Icelandic tale of human pinniped miscegenation is discussed by Ásdís Egilsdóttir, Professor of Icelandic Medieval Literature at the University of Iceland. She examines the figure of Selkolla “Seal-Head”, an infamous she-troll, born of lust, who can appear as a beautiful woman or a female with the head of a seal.

Introduction

5

Several Chapters focus on the way medieval Icelandic sagas dealt with the reality of Iceland’s isolated, insular identity. In Chapter Four, From “Ísland” to “Eyland”, Torfi H. Tulinius, Professor of Medieval Icelandic Studies at the University of Iceland, discusses the importance of Icelanders’ self-perception as islanders in the Middle Ages. He analyses texts from the early twelfth to the late thirteenth centuries, and illustrates when Icelanders came to identify themselves as inhabitants of an “islandcountry”. Insularity and liminality in the Old Norse Íslendingasögur, the sagas of Icelanders, is investigated in Chapter Five by Anna Katharina Heiniger, while in Chapter Six Martina Ceolin explores the various roles islands play in the late fornaldarsögur, the legendary sagas, with particular reference to Áns saga bogsveigis. In Chapter Seven, Outlaws of the Northern Seas: A Comparison in the Norse Corpus, Marion Poilvez discusses how stories of outlawry are entwined with accounts of islands in medieval Icelandic literature, particularly in the Íslendingasögur and in the outlaw episodes in the two North Atlantic insular sagas, Orkneyinga saga and Færeyinga saga. It is a truism that, in the past, life in Shetland would have been impossible without boats. Boats were needed for transport to Shetland, for ferrying within the islands and for fishing. Indeed, it would still be very difficult if one had to rely on air transport alone. The weather often disrupts flights; the wind in winter and the fog in summer. The traditional Shetland boats, the sixareen, fourern and yoal, have Norse origins, and for centuries boats were exported to treeless Shetland from Norway, particularly from the Norwegian municipality of Tysnes, south of Bergen. It was felt to be essential that boats featured in the Conference in order to celebrate Shetland’s rich sailing and rowing heritage. There was a popular, public exhibition of boat-building, using the traditional Norwegian axing technique, by the Norwegian boat-builder Hallgeir Forstrønen Bjørnevik, an expert in the building of the Oselvar boat, from the Os region south of Bergen. His presentation was supported with a keynote speech by Professor Arne Emil Christensen, Professor Emeritus in Nordic Archaeology at Oslo University, who discussed the Shetland boat and its connection with Norwegian boat-building tradition. Much of the terminology associated with traditional boats in Shetland is unsurprisingly of Norse origin. Also, as is appropriate for a windy archipelago, among the many words in Shetland dialect for different kinds of wind, some appear to be of Norse origin: laar, a light diffused wind, guff, a strong puff of wind, and gouster, a strong, gusty wind. These surely hark back to the days of sailing.

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Chapter One

Shetland is not alone in having a Norse influenced boat-building heritage. Traditional boats in the Gàidhealtachd, Gaelic-speaking Scotland, are the focus in Chapter Fifteen, A Preliminary Exploration of the Norse Influence on Gaelic Maritime Terminology. Here Gavin Parsons identifies Norse loan-words in Gaelic. He also detects a pre-Norse stratum of words which indicate sophisticated boat-building in the Gaelic world prior to the arrival of the Norse and their settlement in the Hebrides and along the western littoral of Scotland. The implications are that clinkerbuilt vessels might have reached Shetland from the Gaelic world before the Vikings sailed from Norway. For three days in April 2014, it became apparent that, even after hundreds of years of diverging historical experience, there were still strong ties connecting the North Atlantic communities. It also became apparent that there is a rich vein of academic activity focused on, and based in, this area. This is particularly true of Iceland, in a sense the grown-up sibling amongst Northern Atlantic Islands. However, the contributions from scholars based in Orkney and Shetland also indicated the strength of scholarship in these seemingly isolated archipelagos. Peripheral they might appear to the UK, but they lie at the heart of the North Atlantic, at the intersection of British and Nordic cultures. From a Shetlandic perspective, Iceland’s east coast is no further away than Manchester. Dr Andrew Jennings, Centre for Nordic Studies, UHI.

As one can see from the varied contributions to this volume, the seascapes and dreamscapes of the Northern Atlantic Islands provide a valuable field for the research of old and new relationships that exist between the coastal communities across the North Atlantic region. These small societies are said to be marked by a particular mentality, a combination of strong individualism, but also a sense of community and solidarity.10 Mercantile links are essential to societies living in areas with limited resources or opportunities for agriculture. Both “obvious and hidden regions”11 have been the result of these economic, social and political/administrative regional relationships, with complex cultural encounters occurring. These are used as the basis and context for the formation of identities, both on a sub- and transnational level12. Coastal culture is shaped by four important factors: the Sea; the effects of the climate (weather, temperature and wind, but also sky- and seastates, such as visibility, ebb and flow); topography (the materials and formations of the earth’s surface, both above and beneath the water); and

Introduction

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the production of organic materials (resources basic to human life).13 These diverse influences vary according to time and place, which means one can never really speak about a defined coastal culture “but more like a series of adaptations to variable conditions, an elastic or flexible lifestyle that is intimately connected to the coastal environment”.14 Shared traditions and narratives connect coastal communities in their diverse, but similarly sea-focused cultural landscapes that exist across the oceans of the world. Narratives, in turn, inform the way in which regional cultural identities are formed and maintained.15 They also form the basis of ways in which coastal communities maintain communal memories16, constructed through cultural traditions, which maintain “sub-national regions crossing international boundaries”.17 Island cultures, such as the British Isles, are also essentially coastal cultures, and need to be approached as a network of diverse identities, where both space and place are open to re-negotiation.18 Although islands have a very easily defined border, between sea and land, the cultural identities of the islanders neither define themselves in isolation or only in relation to their nearest “national centre”. In view of an intercultural analysis of cultural practices and historical narratives, the sea that surrounds the British Isles is therefore not a barrier that somehow keeps “Britishness” contained. 19

Transnational links have clearly created a network of intercultural regional identities that connect the coastal communities across the North Atlantic. This opens up important new areas for the investigation of cultural transfer and the links between coastal communities through the construction and transmission of tangible and intangible coastal culture. A shared, diverse, but similarly sea-focused, cultural landscape exists across the coastal communities of the North, and informs the way in which regional cultural identities are formed and maintained.20 Dr Silke Reeploeg, University of the Highlands and Islands.

It is to be hoped that this book will appeal to the interested public and to scholars of a wide range of disciplines, such as those of Island Studies, Cultural Studies, Old Norse Literature, Icelandic Studies, Maritime Heritage, Oceanography, Linguistics, Folklore, British Studies, Ethnology and Archaeology. Similarly, it should attract scholars from a wide geographical area, from the UK, Scandinavia, Europe and Canada, indeed anywhere where there is an interest in the study of islands or the North Atlantic.

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Chapter One

The editors have dedicated this book to Hallgeir Forstrønen Bjørnevik, boatbuilder and friend, who passed away in 2016.

Notes 1. Charlie Simpson has produced the definitive work on Shetland meids. See Charles H. Simpson, Water in Burgidale: Shetland Fisheries in a Pre-Electronic Age (Lerwick: Shetland Amenity Trust, 2010). 2. “Shetland seafood facts” http://www.somuchtosea.co.uk/our_industry. 3. Gibbie Fraser, Shetland’s Whalers Remember (Lerwick: Gilbert A Fraser, 2001). 4. Richard J. Smith, “Shetland and the Greenland Whaling Industry 1780-1872,” Northern Scotland 12 (First Series), Issue 1 (1992), 67-87. 5. See http://photos.shetland-museum.org.uk/ Photo Number R01626. 6. James H. Barrett, and Adam Slater, “New Excavations at the Brough of Deerness: Power and Religion in Viking Age Scotland,” Journal of the North Atlantic (2009), 81-94. 7. Steinar Imsen ed., The Norwegian Domination and the Norse World c.1100 – c.1400: ‘Norgesveldet’, Occasional Papers No.1, (Trondheim; Fagbokforlaget 2010). 8. Terry Gunnell, “Skotrarar, Skudlers, Colloughs and Strawboys: Wedding Guising Traditions in Norway, Shetland and Ireland, Past and Present,” in Atlantic Currents: Essays on Lore, Literature and Language: Essays in Honour of Séamas Ó Catháin on Occasion of His 70th Birthday, 31.12.2012, eds. Bo Almqvist, et al. (Dublin: University College Dublin Press, 2012), 241-268. 9. For a version of this tale visit the School of Scottish Studies online resource http://www.tobarandualchais.co.uk/en/fullrecord/32840/1. 10. Poul Holm, “Kystkultur som forskningsemne,” in Kystsamfunnets Materielle Kultur (Oslo: Norges Forskningsråd, 1995). 11. Harald Winge, “Regions and regional history in Norway,” in Regional Integration in Early Modern Scandinavia, eds. Finn-Einar Eliassen, Jørgen Mikkelsen, and Bjørn Poulsen (Odense: Odense University Press, 2001). 12. Silke Reeploeg, “The Uttermost Part of the Earth: Islands on the Edge … and in the Centre of the North Atlantic,” in Islands and Britishness: A Global Perspective, ed. Jody Matthews, and Daniel Travers (Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2012). 13. Asbjørn Klepp, "Hva er kystkultur?” in Kystkultur, Særpreg og mangfald, eds. Arnljot Løseth, and Per Sæther (Volda: Høgskulen i Volda, 1992). 14. Klepp, “Hva er kystkultur”, 11. 15. Østein Rian, “Regionens rolle i historien,” Heimen, 34 (1997). 16. Peter Aronsson, “National cultural heritage - Nordic cultural memory: negotiating politics, identity and knowledge,” in Transnationale Erinnerungsorte: Nord- und südeuropäische Perspektive (Berlin: BWV Verlag, 2009). 17. Winge, “Regions and regional history in Norway”. 18. Silke Reeploeg, “Northern Maps: Re-negotiating space and place in coastal Scotland and Norway after 1707,” Northern Scotland, 6 (2015), 24-48.

Introduction 19. Reeploeg, “Northern Maps”. 20. Rian, “Regionens rolle i historien”.

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CHAPTER TWO ON THE BORDER: THE LIMINALITY OF THE SEASHORE IN ICELANDIC FOLK LEGENDS OF THE PAST TERRY GUNNELL

For the people of the Northern Atlantic Islands in the past, like people everywhere else, the landscape around them served, among other things, as a kind of book. Like the streets that we grew up on, it preserved both memories and stories that people had heard from those that they encountered day-to-day, and all of these memories and stories can be viewed, in a sense, as the clothes worn by the landscape in question.1 Usually taking the form of legends about local people and places which were meant to be believed by those who heard them,2 these stories gave the landscape historical depth, character, and personality. They also gave it another unseen dimension, populating it with shadows, ghosts and various kinds of supernatural beings. In yet another sense, it might be said that, while the new visitor will tend to see only the immediate geological surface of the environment, these stories also served as a kind of “road map” for the local individual and the community. As I have noted elsewhere, they not only indicated relationships and routes taken between areas, they also: served as a map of behaviour, underlining moral and social values and offering examples to follow or avoid. Simultaneously, they reminded people of the temporal and physical borders of their existence, questions of life and death, periods of liminality, insiders and outsiders, and continuously, the physical and spiritual division between the cultural and the wild, what Levi-Strauss might refer to as the “cooked” and the “raw”. If the map was followed, you had a good chance of living in safety. If you broke it, you stood an equally good chance of ending up in a folk legend yourself if not on a list of mortality statistics.3

On the Border: The Liminality of the Seashore in Icelandic Folk Legends

11

In terms of borders, these legends also made it quite clear where safe “home” spaces ended and where the “outside” began. One area that could clearly never be referred to as a “home” space for those living on islands was the shoreline, which was perhaps the most obvious border of all. This is where the trustworthy solid earth came to an end, and where the wholly untrustworthy water began. The fact that for islanders, as well as for fjord-dwellers, it often served as the main highway between places, made it no less untrustworthy. Liminality, a concept introduced by the anthropologists Arnold van Gennep and Victor Turner, means a sense of being “betwixt and between”,4 and in many senses the shoreline was the ultimate liminal space: between here and there; between above and below; between clarity and opaqueness; between life and death. It was not even constant, changing in shape and size by the hour as the tides came in and went out, and the winds rose and fell. At night, when the water became black and even more opaque, and the echoing waves would fill the silence by crashing or thundering against the rocks or sucking at the sands, it was perhaps the most mysterious and threatening of all places for those living on the coasts. There was little question about the ultimate power of the sea, as the victims of the tsunamis and the refugees attempting to cross the Mediterranean in 2015 and 2016 know to their cost. While the sea could provide a livelihood, it could also provide certain death, sometimes to entire communities, when a whole fleet of boats went down in a storm, as happened in the Gloup Fishing Disaster off Yell, Shetland, in 1881. There can hardly have been a single North Atlantic fisherman or his wife who did not always feel a sense of foreboding when they listened to the sounds of the sea at night, wondering what the next day might bring. Indeed, one of the most widespread legends throughout the Nordic countries is that of people hearing a strange voice calling from a river or some other form of water: “The Time Has Come, But Not the Man” (ML 4050: River Claiming Its Due).5 In short, the sea, like the well that the Nornir 6 of Old Norse mythology sat beside, has always contained a strong sense of both time and fate. Considering what has been stated above, it is perhaps not surprising that the seashore with its sands, rocks, pools and shingle should also have resounded with countless memories and folk legends, underlining the general uncertainty and fears that people felt about this particular shifting space on the edge: this was a space where you met the “other”, not only in the form of death, but also in the shape of strange beings that came from the “outside”, beings which, like the space itself, were a blend of chaos and cosmos, the wild and the civilised, the human and the animal; beings

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that questioned the moral lines between good and evil. Such experiences could change, if not totally eradicate, the day-to-day “road map” that people knew and trusted. In the examples which follow, many of the accounts telling of these strange encounters that took place on the shoreline seem to be based on personal experiences. Others are what we call migratory legends7 or contain migratory motifs, meaning that they were shared and passed on within many of the North Atlantic communities, and especially those situated beside the sea. This underlines that they reflect not only common fears and preoccupations, but also a particular shared culture, cultural vocabulary, part of a shared cultural memory8 which, in the North Atlantic, also tended to mean an intermingling of the Nordic and the Gaelic, if not also the Sámi. In this Chapter, the focus will be placed first and foremost on Icelandic legends of the past and present which deal with the shoreline, and most commonly the shoreline at night, since, as has been noted above, that is when it is both most enchanting and most threatening, somewhat like the Sirens of Homer’s Odyssey. Several examples of legends will be given, along with some discussion about what these accounts reveal about Icelandic attitudes to the space in question. Since many of these accounts have parallels in other countries in the North Atlantic area, albeit with localised variations, it is likely that the discussion will also have relevance for people who lived in these areas too. The first example is one of my personal favourites. It tells of the socalled “Hairy Man of Skarði”, who was found on the dark Meðalland sands in the south of Iceland. As will be seen from the following, this particular account provides an excellent introduction to many of the themes that will be raised later in the Chapter: It happened a long time ago that on one of the Meðalland beaches, the body of a man was found washed up on shore, a man of very strange appearance. He was wearing no clothes, but was covered with hair, and had claws on his fingers and toes. Some people say that two such men were washed up, both exactly the same. Even though everyone was a little frightened of these bodies, they were moved to a farm, and coffins made for them, as usually happens when such an event takes place […]. [One account says that:] The body was moved to Skarði for burial. However, when the funeral was about to take place, and people were about to sing the funeral hymns, they found themselves in difficulties, because every letter in their hymnals had turned back to front, and twisted into forms of blasphemy and curses. People thought this very strange, as might be expected, and they were lost about what to do. Little singing was done. Things went no better when the priest tried to say some words over the body. Even the blessing turned into curses as it left his lips, so he had to

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stop. Nonetheless, in spite of these wonders, the body still came to lie in consecrated soil, and had earth thrown on it by the priest as was planned. Many guesses were made about who this washed-up man might have been: that he might have been one of the Hound-Turks, an evil spirit incarnate, or an ape. Whatever it was, it was not long after this funeral that people started noting ghostly activities taking place in the vicinity of the Skarði church. These got so bad that it was considered impossible to travel around there after dark. People saw the “hairy man” – as the recently buried body was called – pounding the church with planks from his coffin. Various other strange things also happened there […]. Since the time of the funeral, people say it has been very easy to get lost in this area…. 9

One notes how the legend talks of people later “losing their way” on the Meðalland sands following the arrival of the alien being. Indeed, the account also shows accepted rules of Christian behaviour being drawn into question as easily as waves erase words written on sand. As the legend suggests, and as will be stressed later in this Chapter, people throughout the North Atlantic area were duty-bound to pick up any drowned bodies they found and ensure they received Christian burial (see reference to Icelandic moral rules given later in the Chapter), but such behaviour clearly helped little in this case. Alongside this, the legend also raises many questions about the previously accepted lines drawn between man and animal, such as those posed by Charles Darwin in the late nineteenth century in his On the Origin of Species. It also suggests a blurring of the lines between good and evil, the living and the dead: Christian words become swear words, and the dead rise from the earth in which they are buried. It is also worth noting that the story provides its listeners with no motive for the behaviour of the deceased “hairy man” except that he was dissatisfied with being where he was, and even more so when people attempted to bury him. As the legend of the “hairy man” suggests, the shoreline was a place where you could come face to face with the monstrous and the undefinable. In Iceland, the most common representatives of such problematic indefinability that could confront the unwary beachcomber were the so-called fjörulalli, endearingly translated as “beach creep”, and other threatening monstrous half-humans which lurked along the twilight shoreline, that went by the name of hafmenn “sea-men” or haftröll “seatrolls”.10 According to the Sagnagrunnur database of Icelandic folk legends in print, containing over eleven thousand legends,11 around twenty-five examples exist of printed Icelandic legends dealing with each type of being, most of which tend to take the form of what we call “memorats”, that is personal-experience narratives usually told in the first person, in which people try to explain strange experiences they have had

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using the limited cultural vocabulary available to them.12 Most fjörulalli legends come from the western fjords of Iceland,13 underlining that we are dealing with beings that belonged to local cultural vocabulary and beliefs, and perhaps even a localised phenomenon related to a particular kind of environment. So what was a fjörulalli? According to one of the sources of Jón Árnason’s six-volume Icelandic folklore collection containing records from the mid-nineteenth century: Fjörulalli, they say, come up and out of the sea on islands, and around the coast in some places, usually around lambing time, and trouble the ewes, causing all sorts of mutations in the newly borne lambs. There is one island in particular [on Breiðafjörður] near Geitey, called Mikilnefna, where ewes must never be kept at lambing time. Last year there were various ewes there, and they all had disformed lambs, for example with mouths in their throats, six to eight feet, a long tail like that of a dog, and so on; and this is how it is in many places in Eyrarsveit; you just have to make sure the sheep are up on the mainland at that time. […] Some people say they’ve seen these monsters, but descriptions vary a lot.14

The collector, probably a priest, although this is not stated, adds that he does not wish to waste any further ink on this absurd hégiljur “invented superstition”. Most accounts of fjörulalli deal with people, living near the sea or walking along the shore at night, who came across a strange being which they either tried to chase or were chased by, depending on their level of courage. The following two legends, both from the western fjords of Iceland, are comparatively typical. The first tells of a man called Sigurgarður Sturluson, a worker on the Island of Hergilsey, who was outside fetching water in the sheep shed when he caught sight of a creature that he thought must be a bull that had escaped from the next farm. He started chasing it, but had to give up when it dived into the sea and disappeared. Sigurgarður described the being as having been four-footed, with short legs, short hair, a flatish head, and wide nostrils. It was apparently the size of a year-old calf. Most people who heard the story were apparently sure it had to be a fjörulalli.15 The second legend tells of a man called Bjarni, a worker in Sveinseyri, who was walking home one evening when he caught sight of a dark animal on the beach, which he was sure had to be a sheep. Bjarni could not see the creature well at first, owing to the darkness. When he got closer, however, he realised that it had to be something else: the animal was rough-haired and reached all the way up to his chest. It had a short neck,

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and four short, powerful feet. Bjarni’s impression was that it wanted to push him out into the sea and he found himself struggling with it for some time. He tried to hit it, but it seemed to be impervious to any violence. It did nothing in reply, neither biting nor striking him in any way. In the end, Bjarni escaped from the creature, but commented that his fingertips remained numb for some time after the fight. Once again, people believed that he must have encountered a fjörulalli.16 The limited distribution of these legends indicates that both the beliefs and the cultural vocabulary regarding the nature of the strange creatures encountered on Icelandic shorelines seem to have varied by area in Iceland, underlining how localised folklore has always been, even within such a comparatively small population: outside the western fjords, people seem to have placed such creatures more commonly under the general heading of skrimsli and sometimes ófreskjur “monsters”. Descriptions continue to vary: the so-called Flateyjarskrímsli “monster of the Island of Flatey” in North Iceland was, for example, described as being “white as snow, and its body shone like a kind of jellyfish”. The storyteller adds: “I saw no feet, and there was no tail. The eyes were huge, and there was a long trunk or snout on its head. It seemed to open its mouth or yawn, and I then got so scared I ran away.”17 The Hríseyjarskrímsli “monster of the Island of Hrisey”, on the other hand, is described as having: squirmed its way out of the sea, stretched its neck and sniffed in all directions, and then made a great leap up onto the edge of the road. The animal seemed to have five feet, and threw itself forward on individual feet when it jumped.18

The Þönglaskálaskrímsli “monster of Þönglaskáli”, meanwhile, “had a large body and quite long, thin legs. It was short haired”;19 while the Skrímsli á Upsaströnd “monster of Upsaströnd” was “an enormous beast when he [the observer] got close to it, and it seemed most likely that it walked on eight feet, and was all shiny with shells on the outside,”20 a description which is reminiscent of the costumes of certain nineteenthcentury guisers from Shetland, described by Walter Scott in The Pirate, the so-called Shoupeltins,21 and the figure of the Skeljakarl “Shell-man”, who appears and entertains guests in the fourteenth-century Icelandic saga, Bragða-Mágus saga. 22 Another monster that was encountered even further back in time at Eyrabakki in the south of Iceland in November 1594 was described in Jón Espólin’s Árbækur “Annals” as having been particularly odd. This being was said to have been:

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Chapter Two a four-footed monster, tall and straight, seal-haired, and appeared to have a head like that of a dog or hare, with big ears like the inner-soles of shoes; they lay across its back. The body was like that of a pony, although a little smoother. A white band went round its chest, which looked either grey or turf-red in colour when seen from the back. It had a long tail, with a big tuft on the end, like a lion’s tail; it moved quickly like a dog; it was seen at night.23

Considering the surroundings, one wonders whether such legends might have sprung from rare encounters with polar bears or walruses, if not escaped animals from other farms, although few if any of the descriptions seem to fit any of these animals entirely.24 One would expect that most people would have recognised a sheep, a horse or a cow if they had met one in the dark. The overall result of all of these accounts was that, for listeners, they added more than a little degree of wariness with regard to a potential walk along a beach on a pitch-black winter’s evening. In short, they added shape, character and imminent threat to an environment that was already very much alive, even though it was out of sight. Legend distribution patterns (see Sagnagrunnur noted previously) suggest that, for some reason, the alien beasts that people encountered on the shorelines of the north-east and eastern fjords of Iceland tended to be less like animals and more like the dreaded Tibetan yeti: large, covered in seaweed and shells, but, in most cases in these parts, standing on no more than two feet. The beings in question were thus commonly referred to as martröll “sea-trolls” or hafmenn “sea-men”. Once again, the narratives tend to take the form of memorats rather than migratory legends. The following account is comparatively typical of martröll legends, and shows how similar these accounts are in nature to the narratives of the fjörulalli in the west, in spite of the difference in appearance of the beings: Sigtryggur left Húsavík late in the evening, as usual. As usual, he went along the beach, because he felt it easier to walk there. When he reached the stream from the Haukamýrardalur valley, a little outside Kaldbak, he saw a creature coming out of the sea and start heading towards him. To his mind, it looked human, but it was somewhat bigger than a man. He was not expecting any people to be around here, and, even though it was dark, sensed that he was not dealing with any human being. He turned up towards the turf, where there was a pile of wood, and there he grabbed hold of a sturdy piece of roofing, which he felt would serve well as a weapon. As things went, by the time Sigtryggur had taken up the block of wood, the monster had reached him, and immediately went on the attack. A hard fight now took place. Sigtryggur hit out with the wood as hard as he could, but the beast kept on attacking. Sigtryggur had the impression that this monster had arms; it was using them to hit back, giving him a number of hard

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blows. The attack did not seem to be weakening and the creature did not back off however hard he hit it. Its skin seemed to be slippery like that of a jellyfish. He was starting to get worried because he was tiring fast, and had received many heavy blows. Finally, though, he managed to land a blow on one of the arms of the creature, at which point it fell back. It ran off, heading for the sea. He was sure he must have broken the arm of the beast because he saw it flopping loosely when the creature turned away. That was the only reason it had left off its attack. Sigtryggur now climbed up onto the bank as fast as he could, and headed for home. He was exhausted, as has already been described.25

The account ends by saying that the next day local people who went to investigate found both the block of wood and signs of blood at the site in question. One hopes that Sigtryggur had not encountered a survivor of a shipwreck… Hafmaður legends are slightly different from the haftröll accounts in that, while the beings have a similar appearance and they are encountered in similar spaces, in this case not only on beaches but also out at sea, they seem to be more directly closely connected to other forms of legend about powerful beings who rule or control nature, which one should avoid offending at all costs, and certainly not attack with logs. The supernatural rulers in question are figures like the Swedish skogsrå “forest ruler”,26 or the Icelandic Flyðrumóðir “Mother of halibut”,27 Laxamóðir “Mother of salmon”,28 Skötuamóðir “Mother of skate”,29 and Selamóðir “Mother of seals”,30 all of which, to my mind, have very ancient roots. Indeed, most figures like these tend to be found in hunting cultures like that of the Sámi. According to Sigfús Sigfússon’s collection of folk legends, which focuses on the east fjords, a meeting with a hafmaður on the beach was seen first and foremost as an omen: it could be a sign that a storm was on the way.31 According to local beliefs, showing such figures violence could result in shipwrecks.32 Beliefs that figures such as the hafmenn inhabit a parallel world below the sea, in which there are houses, fields and even domestic animals, seem to be very old in the Nordic countries. The idea might perhaps be reflected in a runic inscription found on the early eighth-century Eggja Stone from western Norway, which, according to Ottar Grønvik, makes reference to “man-fish”.33 One of the oldest Nordic legends of such sea-people is found in the Icelandic Landnámabók “The Book of Settlements”, from the twelfth century, which tells of a so-called marmennill “merman”, who is accidentally fished out of the sea and has the power of prophesying who will live, who will die, and where people will eventually settle.34 The same story, now about a marbendill, was clearly still being told in a slightly

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different form in nineteenth-century Iceland, by which point it seems to have become attached to an international storyline also known in Ireland, where it is called the “Three Laughs of the Leprechaun”.35 The most famous of the three marbendill legends contained in Jón Árnason’s collection tells of how one day a farmer pulled up into his boat something that looked like a human. The being said that he was a marbendill. The farmer asked him what he had been doing, and he answered that he had been working on his mother’s chimney, but avoided any further discussion. The story then describes what happened when they came to land: ... his dog came to meet him, and jumped up at him. The farmer reacted badly, and hit the dog. Then the marbendill laughed for the first time. The farmer then continued into the home field, where he tripped over a tussock, which he cursed. Then the marbendill laughed a second time. The farmer went on to the farm. His wife then came out to meet him, greeting him warmly, and the farmer received this warmth well. Then the marbendill laughed a third time. Then the farmer said to the marbendill: “You’ve now laughed three times, and I’m curious to know the reason for this laughter.” “There is no way that I will tell you,” said the marbendill, “unless you take me back to the same place where you fished me up.” The farmer promised him he would do that. The marbendill said: “I laughed first when you hit your dog when it came and greeted you with sincerity. I then laughed a second time when you tripped over a tussock and cursed it, because in that tussock is a treasure trove full of gold. And I then laughed a third time when you warmly received the flattery of your wife, because she is false and unfaithful. Now you have to keep all your promises to me, and take me back to the place where you fished me up.” The farmer said: “Two of the things that you have told me cannot be tested immediately, that is the loyalty of the dog, and the honesty of my wife. But I will try out whether you are telling the truth about there being treasure in the tussock, and if it is so, there is more likelihood that both of the other things are correct, and I will keep my promise.” Then the farmer went off and dug up the tussock and found a great deal of treasure, just as the marbendill had said. After that, he sent his ship back out to sea, and took the marbendil back to the same place where he had been fished up.36

In thanks for returning him, the marbendill sent the farmer seven sækýr “sea cows”, although he only managed to catch one of them. The cow in question was nonetheless extremely fertile, and helped make the farmer so very rich that he named his farm Kvíguvógur “Cow Bay”.37 Sækýr of the kind mentioned in the legend of the marbendill were yet another strange species that was directly associated with both the Icelandic seashore and the idea that a parallel world existed out of sight below the

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sea. Sækýr legends show that the two worlds can interrelate, and underline that the sea not only brought danger but also a livelihood to those who lived beside it. Legends of sækýr and the benefits they could offer to farmers go back at least to the sixteenth century, and have a comparatively wide distribution in Iceland, just as they do in several other countries around the North Sea.38 At least twenty-four such accounts exist in Icelandic printed collections of folktales. Most are comparatively short and take a similar form. The following account from north-east Iceland, also contained in Jón Árnason’s collection, is comparatively typical: In Breiðuvík in Borgarfjörður in Múlasýsla [in East Iceland], there lived a man called Bjarni who was nicknamed “Bjarni the Strong”. One summer it so happened that Bjarni was out in the fields; the weather was rather thick and foggy. He heard the sound of cattle on the move down by the sea below the farm. He took a look through the fog and saw a flock of bulls going by, no fewer than eighteen of them, and a little boy running after them, and after him a calf. Bjarni charged off and stood in the way of the bulls because he knew they were sea bulls. When the boy saw him, he started encouraging the bulls to run. Bjarni saw that an ox was leading and that it had rings on its horns which rattled as it ran. Bjarni and the boy then started competing until they reached the shoreline. At that point Bjarni was in between the calf and the bulls. The boy headed out into the sea with the herd of bulls, but Bjarni turned to face the calf, and hit it so hard on the nose that the bladder which is said to be between the nostrils of sea bulls burst, meaning it could not get back into the sea. Bjarni then led it home to his place. It was a cow, which grew to be a twenty-mark animal, and from her stemmed the best breed of cattle to be seen in Breiðuvik for much of the century.39

The sækýr legends are essentially a seaside variant of other equally common legends known all over the Nordic countries, which tell of people winning over, or being rewarded with, strange cattle or horses “from the other side”, which apparently belong to the Icelandic huldufólk “hidden people” or álfar “elves”,40 or the Norwegian huldre, the equivalent of the Shetland trows, animals which, like the worlds these beings inhabited, were seen as being of much better quality than those known in the daily life of humans.41 The most unique feature of the Icelandic sækýr legends is the recurring belief that the Icelandic sea-cattle were equipped with bladders that apparently grew in front of their noses, which allowed them to live below the water. Once these bladders were burst, the animals apparently lost the ability to return home. Equally interesting is the fact that these legends never mention angry mer-farmers complaining about the loss of their aquatic livestock: the animals seem to be viewed as a gift

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from the richer world of the “other side” to those ingenious or dextrous enough to catch them. As with the stories of “hidden” or trowie livestock, however, it is likely that the legends were primarily ætiological, and essentially a means of explaining the background of a certain successful breed of cattle or the fortune of certain farmers. Another small group of Icelandic legends, which imply that the sea contains a rich hidden world parallel to that on land, is that which deals with the seal-people, what the Scots and Shetlanders call “selkies”.42 Indeed, the people of Shetland and Orkney, like those of the Faroes and Northern Norway, are well aquainted with these accounts, which are classed as international migratory legends (ML 4080: The Seal Woman).43 Once again, all of these legends tend to start on the shoreline, underlining the degree to which the beach represented a liminal space in which, at certain times, the two worlds overlapped. The same liminality applies to the seal-people encountered here, which, like the “hairy man”, the “beach creeps”, the hafmenn, haftröll, marbendlar, sækýr, and the shoreline itself, are neither one thing nor the other. There is, however, a key difference about the nature of the legends of the seal-folk. Unlike the other accounts, which tend to focus on encounters with male figures on both sides (although one of the Icelandic words for monster, ófreskja, is grammatically female), these accounts focus on a relationship between a human man and a supernatural woman, a pattern well known from Nordic mythology and folklore.44 These legends have an additional degree of liminality in that they tend to start on a holy day commonly associated with change or new beginnings, such as Christmas Day, New Year’s Eve or Twelfth Night, and then at the dawn of that day, at the cusp of night and morning. The most famous Icelandic account runs as follows: Once upon a time, there was a man who lived out east in Mýrdalur who was walking along the cliffs by the sea early in the morning before anyone else was out and about; he came to the opening of a cave, out of which he could hear the sound of laughter and dancing. Outside the cave, there were a number of seal skins. He took one of the seal skins home with him and locked it in a chest. One day, some time later, he came back to the cave opening, and there sat a pretty young woman; she was totally naked and crying bitterly. It was the seal that owned the skin the man had taken. The man gave the girl some clothes, calmed her and took her home with him. She followed his will, but didn’t get on very well with others. She would often sit and stare out to sea. After a while, the man married her, and things went well for them; they had a number of children. The farmer kept the skin locked up in a chest and kept the key with him wherever he went. Many years later, he went out

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rowing and forgot the key under his pillow at home. Others say that he had gone to a Christmas mass with other local people, but his wife was ill and couldn’t go with him. Then he had forgotten to take the key out of his everyday clothes when he was getting changed. When he came back, the chest was open and the skin had gone. She had taken the key, been curious about the chest and found the skin in it; then she could not stand the temptation, said farewell to her children, and dived into the sea. Before the woman dived into the sea, it is said that she said to herself: “Oh me oh my;/ seven children in the sea have I;/ and seven children on the land.” It is said that the man was badly affected by this. When he later rowed out to fish, a seal could often be seen swimming around his ship, and it was as if tears were in its eyes. He became a very successful fisherman from that time onwards and very fortunate with objects that washed up on his shore. People often saw that, when the children he had had with his wife were walking along the shoreline, a seal would swim in front of them, and then, whether they were on the beach or shore, it would throw up to them fish of all colours and beautiful shells, but their mother never came back to land.45

This is a legend known by almost all Icelanders, partly because it is so well told. Somewhat ironically, however, the legend was not very widespread in Iceland. There are not many more than five or six versions in total, most, quite logically, set at sites where seals were seen – if the sites are named at all.46 The storyline itself is international. It goes back at least as far as the late thirteenth century and an Eddic poem called Völundarkviða “the Lay of Völundr”, stanzas 1-5, echoed in the preceding prose, where it does not deal with a seal but rather three valkyrjur in the shape of swans, who are caught while swimming in a lake or the sea without their feathers (álptarhamir þeirra “their swan guises”) by three northern Norwegian hunters, and temporarily made their wives for seven winters until they made an escape.47 While the swan version of the story continued to live a good life in German folklore, in most parts of Norway the story tends to involve yet another liminal female figure called the mara “nightmare”, who slips in through men’s keyholes at night, making them breathless by sitting on their chests (ML 4010: Married to the Nightmare).48 In the case of the mara legend, the woman is caught when the man blocks his keyhole, thereby preventing her escape for some years. All of these legends, most of which deal with solo men alone in the wild at night, have a strong sense of the erotic, much like the skogsrå legends in Sweden noted above. It is nonetheless noteworthy how often our sympathies as listeners or readers tend to be with the women, even though certain aspects of the story suggest faint genetic links with the Greek legend of Pandora’s Box in Hesiod’s Works and Days, in which the

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curious Pandora opens a jar and releases all the ills of the world. Also interesting is the way in which the seal-women, unlike the essentially lonely, landbound men of the legends, are shown as being in closer connection with nature in the shape of the sea. They come from out of the night, and start off in the company of family and friends from the sea. While the man takes the clothes and the woman, forcing her to be his wife and have his children, the woman tends to have the last word. Many women forced unwillingly into marriage would have easily understood her situation. They would note how, while the seal-wife is taken from the sea, like the sækýr, she succeeds in making a return to her home environment, like the marbendill/ marmennill. Furthermore, like the marbendill, it is implied that she has power over the wealth of the sea, much like the Mothers of the salmon, skate and halibut, previously mentioned. This suggests the possibility of distant mythological links to earlier goddesses closely associated with water, like the Nordic Frigg, Sága and Rán, the jötunn Skaði who refuses to live with her husband Njörðr, and Celtic goddesses like Danu or Bóinn. The idea of a shape-changing woman, and not least a shape-changing woman who takes the shape of a bird, offers potential parallels to the figure of the Nordic goddess Freyja, also closely associated with the valkyrjur, who was believed to own a bird (falcon) costume.49 The idea that all seals were actually semi-human, something that is nearly unavoidable if one looks into the eyes of a seal, is nonetheless comparatively widespread: according to one international ætiological motif also known in Iceland, they stemmed originally from Pharaoh’s army which drowned in the Red Sea.50 The idea of semi-human, semi-supernatural creatures that could be encountered on the seashore leads on naturally to the semi-inhuman foreigners speaking in strange tongues, with whom one could also come face to face in this liminal space. As noted above, the shoreline was the most obvious of borders for the island-dwellers of the North Atlantic. It was, however, not only where beings came up out of the sea but also where they might arrive from over the horizon, bringing both threats and temptations of a different kind. At the start of this Chapter, it was noted that local people wondered whether the “hairy man of Skarði” might be the devil or a “Hound-Turk”. The idea of the “Hound-Turk” was one that had particular resonance over the centuries among Icelanders. It had roots in a historical event from June and July 1627, when two large groups of Algerian pirates arrived on the south and east coasts of Iceland, killing a number of Icelanders and taking off over three hundred and fifty slaves.51 Nothing of the kind had ever occurred in Iceland before, or would ever

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occur again, but the event underlined emphatically for Icelanders that foreign ships did not only bring trade. Those in them could also steal and bring death. The Icelandic expression hundtyrkir is explained by Swedish legends from Dalsland, which tell that some Turks were believed to have tails, bark like dogs, and eat human meat.52 A number of Icelandic legends were clearly still being told in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries about the arrival of the Turks and the barbarity of their attack, about the narrow escapes of certain lucky individuals, and how the Icelanders used magic to raise fog or storms to prevent them from doing even more damage.53 Most legends cluster around the sites where the actual events took place, and at least one of them tells of a Turk, washed up on land after a storm caused by an Icelandic magician, who tried to bite anyone who came near him.54 Another tells how they growled like lions.55 The idea that these humans were seen as being half-animals who could not speak human language says a great deal about how nineteenth-century Icelanders still viewed outsiders. Naturally, most Icelanders had little contact with foreigners apart from Danish officials and merchants, and perhaps a few upper-class tourists from Britain or Germany. Few had studied abroad. These same fears of the foreigner suddenly appearing on the beach in local Icelandic space are certainly sharply reflected in the numerous Icelandic legends concerning washed-up bodies, such as that of the “hairy man of Skarði”. Such legends once again reflect the dangers to both mind and body that the liminal shoreline could pose for any Icelander who dared venture along a beach. As noted at the start, the bodies of foreigners who had been washed up not only had the potential to overturn all moral certainties but, as with the “hairy man”, they also erased the “road map” designed to guide people through life, in some cases literally. As with the accounts of shoreline encounters with “beach creeps” and “sea-trolls”, it is noteworthy how many of the recorded legends dealing with such occurrences name people and places, suggesting they have an origin in personal-experience narratives or memorats reflecting actual experiences, local beliefs and local cultural vocabulary. Matters in these stories should be uncomplicated. As the Finnish folklorist Juha Pentakäinen has observed,56 those who had drowned at sea were seen by many as being trapped between two different worlds, essentially those of the living and the dead. They had left one world, and not been formally accepted into another. They were what Pentakäinen calls “the dead without status”, both “innocent” and “unsatisfied”, because they had not committed any crime deserving punishment, but had not received Christian burial. Like the well-known Scandinavian spirits of

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children, who had been carried out to die of exposure after birth which Pentakäinen examines in particular,57 the drowned were generally seen as never achieving peace until they had been buried in a graveyard, and thereby been given a chance to properly join the departed. As a result of this, as one Icelandic legend underlines, the rule was that: “if people find a corpse, they must not walk by it without doing something to help it, otherwise the dead man or woman will come for the person who walked by them and haunt them both day and night.”58 As in Sweden and Cornwall,59 in Iceland the person who found the body on the shore had to ensure that it was taken to a graveyard, or at least inform the authorities of its whereabouts. A number of legends from Iceland, Scandinavia and the British Isles underlined this rule, describing exactly what might be expected to happen to people who ignored corpses found on the shoreline.60 One example from Iceland tells of a man who, quite understandably, avoided a corpse which was so worm-eaten that he thought it might be a shark or whale, only to turn round and find it chasing him furiously across the beach with “its intestines flopping all over the place and its bones rattling”.61 This particular ghost was apparently so riled it needed a professional magician to put it back to sleep. The usual format of the numerous Icelandic legends which feature Icelandic bodies is that those who have been drowned and washed up on shore make a special effort to contact their relations and friends through the medium of dreams. The stories tell how they inform the dreamer of where their bodies can be found, and thereby guarantee that they are given a Christian burial, and more importantly, are laid to rest alongside other deceased family members, within the local community. Also worth noting is that these legends about the drowned bodies of local men rarely say anything about the appearance of the body. They thus essentially provide a strong reflection of the anguish suffered by those waiting at home for news, seeking closure; and the deep and natural desire to bring the lost member back into the arms of their own family. The same idea, of course, regularly occurs in many legends from other countries. Matters were nonetheless clearly somewhat different with regard to the foreign bodies washed up in Iceland, corpses which did not abide by the rule book and posed all sorts of additional moral problems, not least when they had possessions any poor Icelandic farm-labourer might dream of owning, such as proper boots and buttons. Two extant nineteenth-century accounts from Árnafjörður in the west of Iceland tell of a famous wandering ghost named Stígvélabrokkur “Boots”, and a particularly difficult encounter one man had with such a “foreign body”.62 Both

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accounts centre around the legend of a shepherd who found a corpse on the shore, more particularly a corpse that was well-equipped with very fine boots, which the shepherd tried to remove. However, according to the later account recorded by Jón Thorarensen, the foot in one of the boots was krepptur “clenched”, suggesting the body was purposely trying to keep the boot, which meant the shepherd had to abandon his attempt. In Ólafur Daviðsson’s earlier version of the legend, he then concealed the first boot, and the body was duly buried. In spite of this, however, the figure of Stígvélabrokkur started haunting the shepherd. The later account attempts to explain the reason why Stígvélabrokkur remained in the area: the shepherd had exacerbated his crime by sending body and boot back out to sea, thereby underlining why the ghost should have been more than a little irritated. Especially interesting is the manner in which Stígvélabrokkur goes on to haunt the shepherd in the earlier version. The account tells how the ghost tried to drive both the shepherd and his sheep high up onto the mountain, far from home, into the perilous, uncharted “wild”, where the spirit would have greater power to take revenge on his enemy. There are obvious parallels here with the story of the “hairy man” and his habit of leading people off the beaten track into the wild. In these Icelandic legends, guilt clearly haunts, but so too do other things in the cases of these “foreign bodies”, and this applies not least to the physical appearance of the near inhuman bodies, which is commonly emphasised in the legends, understandably echoing the way in which they imprinted themselves upon both the retina and the mind. These elements are particularly clear in the following, slightly more recently recorded, account of such an encounter, which tells of a foreign body found by two men near Selvógur in the south of Iceland in the early twentieth century. It is worth giving in full because, in many ways, it sums up all the liminal dangers of the shoreline encountered in the legends that have been recounted above, and not least in that telling of the “hairy man”. The legend, part of recording SÁM 89/ 1827 EF in the sound archive of the Árnamagnean Institute in Reykjavík, tells of brothers Jón and Stefán who, to those aware of Nordic folk tradition, were asking for trouble when they walked along a deserted beach to play cards with a neighbour at Christmas time.63 The account runs as follows: These brothers were considered to be very promising men, brave and able, and especially Stefán.... When this happened, Þorsteinn Ásbjarnason was living at Bjarnastaðir in Selvógur, he was a great farmer and in many ways a man of note, and in the winter, and especially around Christmas, the

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Chapter Two brothers had a habit of going east to Bjarnastaðir to play cards with Þorsteinn. And then once, one winter, either on New Year’s Eve or Twelfth Night, they were walking south from Stakkahlíð to Bjarnastaðir to play cards as they had done so often before. And on the way they went... there was some snow on the ground so they went along the beach.... And when they were a little east of Vogsós, there they found on the beach, well, you know... a body which was badly rotten, they could hardly tell what it was really. And they didn’t stop, but it is said that Stéfan gave it a kick, saying, “What on earth’s that doing on land?” So they continued east to Bjarnastaðir, and nothing happened there really; they played cards until morning. But in the morning when... before they left they mentioned to Þorsteinn that they had found this thing. And he got very agitated and sent two of his workmen immediately west along the beach to search for it. But they found nothing, were aware of nothing. Of course there had been a high tide in between. And so they went home and nothing happened, but Þorsteinn goes... he took it so badly that for half a month he was constantly searching by the sea to the west where it had come to land. And then, once, later in the winter, the brothers go by Vógsós… to play cards as usual, and when they were in the same area, east of Vogsós, they became aware of something that... is always... keeps getting in their way, but they don’t go along the beach, but instead walk directly; there probably wasn’t any snow on the ground. But they were aware of something that was getting in their way, trying to force them down towards the sea, but it... it doesn’t do them any harm because there were two of them, and they get to their destination and nothing special happened. And then, some time later in the winter, it is late and Stefán went east by Vógur on his own, on some errand or other, it wasn’t... daylight, but on the way, when he went out, it was getting dark, it was getting pretty late in the evening, and he met this thing again, and is attacked by this being whatever it was, it was always trying to get him down to the beach, and he was a big man, both brave and strong and he had to use all of his strength to defend himself against this thing and late in the evening, he came… he made it back to Vogsós. He was totally exhausted, in terrible shape. And after that he was so afraid of the dark that he hardly went out without having someone with him. And then, he never goes... around those parts for the rest of the winter, and after that it starts getting lighter and the attacks became less obvious. But at some point, his brother Jón had had an encounter with this thing, not as much, but he was in a hurry to leave Stakkahlíð.... I think he went to… well, somewhere else. Well, nothing happened that summer or the next winter. Nobody was aware of anything, but then one time, that autumn or in the winter, just before Christmas, Stefán went east by Vogsós one time. By this time he

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has recovered from what had happened to him the previous winter and well... so he sets off late in the day, but never comes home in the evening. But straight away next morning they started looking for him, and he was found dead on the beach not far from where... somewhere, somewhere between the beach and Vogsós. And people didn’t know... or couldn’t understand what had happened to him unless this being that had attacked him the previous winter had now come again and done better in this encounter.

It is worth noting how once again in this legend, the being on the shore seems to have somehow physically disturbed the well-known “road map” of the area; it deliberately tries to drive the brothers away from safety and into the “wild” where it came from. The story creates the same problem for its listeners. While we understand the crime, we also understand the position of the brothers. Just like the fjörulalli, the hafmenn, haftröll, marbendlar, seal-people and Hundtyrkir, the foreign bodies like that encountered by Stefán, which appeared on the shorelines of Iceland, wore away the certainties of daily life, as waves do cliffs, posing numerous moral and psychological questions that were extremely difficult to answer. Certainly, for the people of the Northern Atlantic Islands, the shoreline could provide riches in the shape of fish, whales, useful driftwood, foreign trade and even sea-cows. Nonetheless it could also remind you that, like the “Fool” in the Tarot card pack, you were always walking on the edge. As you walked along a beach, you were not merely walking along the border between sea and land, you were also stepping into the realm of fate and the supernatural, a highly liminal space, in which you were no longer the most powerful of God’s creations and in which you could no longer be certain where roads ended. If nothing else, the legends quoted in this Chapter stressed to the Icelanders that the sea and its inhabitants, dead or alive, just like any business partners, deserved respect, and should never be taken lightly.64

Notes 1. See Terry Gunnell, “Innrás hinna utanaðkomandi dauðu,” in Sjöunda landsbyggðarráðstefna Sagnfræðingafélags Íslands og Félags þjóðfræðinga á Íslandi; haldin á Eiðum 3.-5. júni 2005, ed. Hrafnkell Lárusson, (Ráðastefnurit: Fylgirit Múlaþings 33, 2006), 47-54 and Terry Gunnell, “Legends and Landscape in the Nordic Countries,” Cultural and Social History, 6.3 (2009), 305-322. 2. See Elliott Oring, “Legendry and the Rhetoric of Truth,” Journal of American Folklore 121 (2008), 127-166, and Timothy R. Tangherlini, ‘It Happened Not Far from Here...’: A Survey of Legend Theory and Characterization,” Western Folklore, 49 (1990), 385.

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3. Terry Gunnell, “An Invasion of Foreign Bodies: Legends of Washed Up Corpses in Iceland,” in Eyðvinur: Heiðursrit til Eyðun Andreassen, eds. Malan Marnersdóttir, and Anfinnur Johansen (Tórshavn: Føroya Fróðskaparfelag, 2005), 70. 4. Victor Turner, The Ritual Process: Structure and Anti-Structure (New York: Aldine de Gruyter, 1995), 25-26; 94-96; 166-168; Arnold van Gennep, The Rites of Passage, trans. Monika B. Vizedom, and Gabrielle L. Caffee (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1960), 18-21. 5. ML stands for Migratory Legend, here and later in the Chapter. See Reidar Th. Christiansen, The Migratory Legends: A Proposed List of Types with a Systematic Catalogue of Norwegian Variants (Helsinki: Academia Scientiarum Fennica, 1958), 66-68; Reimund Kvideland, and Henning K. Sehmsdorf, eds. Scandinavian Folk Belief and Legend (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1988), 256. 6. The female Nornir were the Nordic equivalent of the Fates (or Moirai) who decided the fates of human beings. According to the Old Norse poem, Völuspá, stanza 20 (see (Eddadigte I 1964, 5-63), these three women, Urðr (Future), Verðandi (Present) and Skuld (Past), originally came from the well Urðarbrunnr that they sat beside (and probably drew water from): see further Karen BekPedersen, The Norns in Old Norse Mythology (Edinburgh: Dunedin Academic, 2011). 7. See Christiansen, The Migratory Legends. 8. See Jan Assmann, Religion and Cultural Memory: Ten Studies (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2006), 1-30. 9. Original Icelandic text in Einar Guðmundsson, Íslenskar þjóðsögur, Volume I (Reykjavík: Leiftur, 1932), 12-17. Unless otherwise noted, all translations are by the author. 10. Sometimes other words such as sjódvergur, hafdvergur, and mardvergur (all meaning “sea-dwarf”) also occur: see, for example, Sigfús Sigfússon, Íslenskar þjóðsögur og sagnir, eds. Óskar Halldórsson et al. (Reykjavík: Þjóðsaga hf. IV, 1982-1993), 53-56; 60-62; Jón Árnason, Íslenzkar þjóðsögur og ævintýri, 6 Volumes, eds. Árni Böðvarsson, and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson (Reykjavík: Bókaútgáfan Þjóðsaga, 1954-1961), I, 126. As in the example from Jón Árnason’s collection noted here, the word is sometimes used for the so-called marbendill. 11. See www.sagnagrunnur.com. 12. See Lauri Honko, “Memorates and the Study of Folk Belief,” in Nordic Folklore, eds. Reimund Kvideland, and Henning K. Sehmsdorf (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1989), 100-109. 13. While the folk-legend collector Sigfússon Íslenskar þjóðsögur og sagnir, IV, 106-107, also notes that most legends of this kind are found in the western fjords, his collection, which largely contains material from the east, also contains a few legends dealing with fjörulalli (also called fjörulabbi here) which occur in the eastern fjords: see Sigfússon, 106-112. 14. Original Icelandic text in Árnason Íslenzkar þjóðsögur, III, 215. 15. See Helgi Guðmundsson, and Arngrímur Bjarnason, Vestfirskar sagnir, I-III. (Reykjavík: Bókaverzlun Guðmundar Gamalíelssonar; Fagurskinna. 1933-1937), I, 81-84.

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16. Guðmundsson and Bjarnason, Vestfirskar sagnir, I, 85-88. 17. Original Icelandic text in Oddur Björnsson and Jónas Jónasson, Þjóðtrú og þjóðsagnir (Akureyri: Bókaforlag Odds Björnssonar, 1977), 230-232. 18. Ibid., 234-235. 19. Ibid., 232-233. 20. Ibid., 233-234. 21. Walter Scott, The Pirate (Lerwick: Shetland Times Ltd, 1996), 128. 22. Bragða-Mágus saga ed. Gunnlaugur Þórðarson (Copenhagen: Páll Sveinsson, 1858), 62-79. 23. Original Icelandic text in Ólafur Davíðsson, Íslenskar þjóðsögur, I-IV, eds. Þorsteinn M. Jónsson, and Bjarni Vilhjálmsson. (Reykjavík: Þjóðsaga, 1987) I, 128. 24. It might be noted that in many areas of western Iceland, sheep were often grazed on the shoreline. 25. Original Icelandic text in Björnsson and Jónasson, Þjóðtrú og þjóðsagnir, 148149. 26. See John Lindow ed., Swedish Legends and Folktales (Berkeley, Los Angeles, London: University of California Press, 1978), 126-130; Kvideland and Sehmsdorf Nordic Folklore, 217. 27. Árnason, Íslenzkar þjóðsögur og ævintýri, I, 632. 28. Ibid., I, 632. 29. Ibid., I, 631. 30. Ibid., I, 629. 31. Sigfússon, Íslenskar þjóðsögur og sagnir, IV, 21-22). 32. Ibid., IV, 11-13. 33. Ottar Grønvik, Runene på Eggjasteinen: En hedensk gravinnskrift fra slutten av 600-tallet (Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 1985), 76-91; 162-163. 34. Íslendingabók, Landnámabók, ed. Jakob Benediktsson. Íslenzk fornrit I. (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1968), I, 94-97 [Chapters S68 and H56]. 35. Michael Chesnutt, “The Three Laughs: A Celtic-Norse Tale in Oral Tradition and Medieval Literature,” in Celtic-Nordic-Baltic folklore symposium; Islanders and water-dwellers (DBA Publications Ltd. Blackrock, 1999), 37-50. 36. Original Icelandic text in Árnason Íslenzkar þjóðsögur og ævintýri, I, 127-128. 37. See also Árnason, Íslenzkar þjóðsögur og ævintýri, I, 126-127; and III, 202203; and for other versions see also Davíð Erlingsson, “Ormur, Marmennill, Nykur: Three Creatures of the Watery World,” in Islanders and Water-Dwellers, eds. Patricia Lysaght, Séamas Ó Catháin, and Daíthí Ó Hógáin, (Dublin: Blackrock 1999), 61-80; Jacqueline Simpson ed. and trans. Icelandic Folktales and Legends (Stroud: Tempus, 2004), 106-108, regarding this figure. According to Sigfússon, Íslenskar þjóðsögur og sagnir, IV, 110, it has been argued that some of the smaller beings encountered in the eastern fjords might have been sea-otters. Slightly different legends which are a mixture of the marbendill story and that of the sealwife in that the being fished out of the sea and brought home is a woman can be found in Árnason Íslenzkar þjóðsögur og ævintýri, IV, 202 and 204-206. 38. Simpson, Icelandic Folktales and Legends, 108-109. 39. Original Icelandic text in Árnason, Íslenzkar þjóðsögur og ævintýri, I, 129.

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40. On the Icelandic álfar and their connection to “elves”, see further Terry Gunnell, “How Elvish Were the Álfar?” in Constructing Nations, Reconstructing Myth: Essays in Honour of T. A. Shippey, Making the Middle Ages, 9, eds. Andrew Wawn, Graham Johnson, and John Walter (Turnhout, Brepols, 2007), 111–130. 41. See Árnason, Íslenzkar þjóðsögur og ævintýri, I, 38-39; Simpson, Icelandic Folktales and Legends, 37-39; Kvideland and Sehmsdorf, Nordic Folklore, 232. 42. See further David Thomson, The People of the Sea: Celtic Tales of the SeaFolk (Canongate: Edinburgh, 1996). 43. See Christiansen, The Migratory Legends, 75; Kvideland and Sehmsdorf, Nordic Folklore, 264-266. 44. See further John Mckinnell, Meeting the Other in Norse Myth and Legend (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 2005), 50-94. 45. Original Icelandic text in Árnason, Íslenzkar þjóðsögur og ævintýri, I, 629-630. 46. See Árnason Íslenzkar þjóðsögur og ævintýri, I, 629; IV, 10; Sigfússon, Íslenskar þjóðsögur og sagnir, IV, 187-188. 47. Eddadigte III Heltedigte, Første Del ed. Jón Helgason, Second Edition. (København: Ejnar Munksgaard, 1962), 1-3. 48. See Christiansen, The Migratory Legends, 60-61, and, for example, Kvideland and Sehmsdorf, Nordic Folklore, 57-58; Bengt Klintberg, Svenska folksägner (Stockholm: Norstedts, 1986), 242; Simpson, Icelandic Folktales and Legends, 158-159. 49. See, for example, Snorri Sturluson, Edda: Skáldskaparmál 1: Introduction, Text and Notes, ed. Anthony Faulkes (London: Viking Society for Northern Research, 1998), 2; 30. 50. Árnason, Íslenzkar þjóðsögur og ævintýri, I, 629. 51. See Bryndís Björgvínsdóttir, Tyrkjarán 1627 í sinni og minni: Notkun og viðhorf Íslendinga á “Tyrkjaráns týrranaskap”. Unpublished BA essay (Reykjavik: University of Iceland, 2006). 52. Klintberg, Svenska folksägner, 284-285. 53. See further Björgvínsdóttir, Tyrkjarán 1627 í sinni og minni. 54. Árnason, Íslenzkar þjóðsögur og ævintýri, III, 611. 55. Sigfússon, Íslenskar þjóðsögur og sagnir, IX, 149-150. 56. Juha Pentakäinen, “The Dead Without Status,” in Nordic Folklore: Recent Studies, eds. Reimund Kvideland, and Henning K. Sehmsdorf (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1989), 131. 57. Pentakäinen, “The Dead Without Status”. 58. Original Icelandic text in Árnason, Íslenzkar þjóðsögur og ævintýri, V, 458. 59. See further Terry Gunnell, “An Invasion of Foreign Bodies”, 70-79. 60. For further examples, see Gunnell, “An Invasion of Foreign Bodies”. 61. Original Icelandic text in Árnason, Íslenzkar þjóðsögur og ævintýri, V, 458. 62. Davíðsson, Íslenskar þjóðsögur, I, 306-308; and Jón Thorarensen, Rauðskinna hin nýrri. 2 Volumes. (Reykjavík: Þjóðsaga, 1971), 117-118. 63. It might be noted that the storyteller seems to go out of her way to underline the general timing. She also underlines that she was convinced the event actually happened, stressing that the story was not told as a folktale but as local history.

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64. Parts of this Chapter have been published earlier but in a different form in Gunnell, “An Invasion of Foreign Bodies,” and Gunnell, “Innrás hinna utanaðkomandi dauðu”.

CHAPTER THREE SANCTITY AND THE SEA ÁSDÍS EGILSDÓTTIR

In medieval Iceland, the sea, fishing, and whale and sea mammal hunting were important aspects of daily life, although farming could sustain the majority of the population. Saga literature indicates that fish had been caught from the very beginning. Fish became of vital importance once the population had been taught to observe a fast. In addition to fishing, seals were hunted on shores and whales drifted to beaches, where they were divided among the people who lived nearby. Wood was imported from Norway but the sea also provided valuable driftwood.1 The sea and seafaring were part of Viking roots, as emphasized in sagas and poetry. The settlers had travelled to the country by sea. The proximity of the sea is also felt in the miracles of Icelandic saints. This Chapter will examine miracles of Icelandic saints that involve fishing, sea mammal or seabird hunting and travels by sea. In addition, it will examine miracles attributed to potential or temporarily venerated Icelandic saints and the sea-related miracles of St Magnus, earl of Orkney. Ships, water, fish and fishing are well-known Christian symbols. Ships are symbols of the Church, in which the faithful find salvation from the storm of life. Part of the imagery is derived from the story of Noah’s ark, saving him and his family during the Flood. Calming the storm is one of Jesus’ miracles in the Gospels (Mark 4, 35 – 41). A miraculous catch of fish is also reminiscent of the stories of the disciples fishing unsuccessfully in the Sea of Galilee. When Jesus told them to cast their nets again, they were rewarded with a great catch (Luke 5, 1 – 11; John 21, 1 – 14). The fish is the symbol of Christ. The initial letters of the Greek word for fish, IX‫ڧ‬YC, formed an acrostic which could be read as “Jesus Christ, Son of God, the Saviour”. Five fish also had a Eucharistic significance, a reference to the miracle of the loaves and the fishes. St Peter the Apostle has a fish as one of his attributes. In Christian art, several saints are depicted with ships, including St Brendan of Clonfert

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and St Nicholas of Myra. His cult is believed to have originated by the shores of Lycia, where the inhabitants depended greatly on fishing. It has even been suggested that he was a Christian version of Poseidon. He was the patron saint of seafarers and merchants. Medieval Icelandic sources show that St Nicholas, known in Iceland from the twelfth century, was a popular saint. He seems to have been especially popular among Icelandic aristocratic families who were ship-owners and merchants.2 Three Icelandic saints were venerated from 1200 until the Reformation in the middle of the sixteenth century: Þorlákr Þórhallsson (1133 – 1193), Jón Ögmundsson (1052 – 1121) and Guðmundr Arason (1161 – 1237).3 The Icelandic saints were bishops and confessors. They were local saints, not recognized by the pope, although papal right to canonize was gradually becoming generally acknowledged. It was, however, a long process, and the sole right to canonize was not given to the pope until 1234. Even then, the pope could delegate his authority and give the right to canonize to other clerical authorities.4 Þorlákr Þórhallsson, bishop of Skálholt, was for several years abbot of the first Icelandic Augustinian monastery, until he was consecrated bishop in 1178. He died on December 23rd, 1193. His relics were translated on July 20th, 1198, and in the same year he was declared a saint at the Alþing “General Assembly” by his successor, Páll Jónsson, the illegitimate son of Þorlákr’s sister and one of the country’s most powerful chieftains. The second Icelandic saint, Bishop Jón Ögmundsson of Hólar, was consecrated as the first bishop of Hólar in 1106. His bones were disinterred and washed in 1198. In 1200, they were enshrined at Hólar and his cult was officially recognized. Guðmundr Arason, the fifth bishop of Hólar, was the third Icelandic saint. His cult is mainly a product of the fourteenth century. His relics were exhumed in 1315. The Lives of St Þorlákr (Þorláks saga) and St Jón (Jóns saga) were originally composed in Latin. Remnants of the Latin Þorláks saga texts are related to the vernacular version, but do also show some discrepancies.5 Sources indicate that a Latin Life of St Jón did exist, but it is now lost.6 The oldest vernacular version of Þorláks saga was written shortly after 1200 and rewritten in the thirteenth century. Jóns saga exists in three versions, one early thirteenth-century version and two from the fourteenth century. Four surviving biographies, versions A – D, of Guðmundr Arason were written in the fourteenth century. The youngest of the four, version D, by Abbot Arngrímr Brandsson, is dated to around 1340 – 1350. It has been suggested that version D, apparently written with a foreign audience in mind, was an attempt to acquire a papal canonization of Bishop Guðmundr, but no Latin version has been preserved. 7

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Chapter Three

Throughout the Middle Ages, miracles formed an integral part of daily, ordinary life. In miracles, common people with everyday problems come forward as central characters. The saint acts as a model of behavior in the biographies; the miracles make him a benefactor and protector. Local, mundane features of the narrative are more prominent in the miracles than in the biography, where the pious saint and his exemplary life is usually the central figure. In common with all canonized or recognized local saints, the Icelandic saints’ Lives contain miracles. In vita miracles are placed within the epic discourse of the narrative. Post mortem miracles, which apparently occurred as the result of prayers and with the help of relics, are related as an epilogue. Þorláks saga mentions several in vita miracles, but the audience is reminded that their true value was not understood until after the bishop’s death. Guðmundar saga is different in this respect with a relatively high number of in vita miracles. While there are no more than about fifteen in Þorláks saga and Jóns saga, the youngest version of Guðmundar saga, version D, contains eighty-three in vita miracles.8 The miracles of the Icelandic saints give a unique insight into daily life. As such, they are an invaluable addition to the picture that contemporary secular sagas, for example the thirteenth-century Sturlunga saga, give of the life and mentality of the people in Iceland in the Middle Ages. In addition to miracles related as epilogues, a few Icelandic miraclebooks have been preserved. The largest collection of Icelandic miracles is attributed to St Þorlákr. The oldest preserved document is a miracle-book that was read aloud at the Alþingi in 1199.9 The manuscript is dated to 1220. Two other separate collections of St Þorlákr´s miracles have been preserved.10 No parallel collection of St Jón’s first miracles has been preserved, but a collection of St Jón´s miracles is referred to in version C of Guðmundar saga.11 Guðmundar saga, version B, was probably written shortly after 1320, or after the relics had been exhumed. A miracle-book is included in this version. Most miracle-stories are preserved in more than one version and new miracles were added in younger versions of the sagas. In this Chapter, the oldest and the youngest collection of Icelandic miracles, the oldest miracle book of St Þorlákr and the miracles collected in the youngest Guðmundar saga Arasonar, will be discussed.12 All Icelandic miracle collections contain sea or water-related miracles. The beginning of the oldest miracle-book of St Þorlákr is lost, but fortyfour miracles have been preserved. Characteristically, the majority of the miracles tell of healings, several of lost tools miraculously found, and harsh and stormy weather improved by the intervention of the saint. Sea or water appears in seven of the forty-four miracles. In most of the sea-

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related miracles in the miracle-book, the sea is shown as a food supply. A woman is walking alone on the shore and finds a seal lying there and tries to strike it, but then it raises itself taller than the woman. She prays to the saint and manages to kill the seal, and gets plenty of food for her family. A similar story tells of a poor man who batters a seal to death and understands that he would not have been able to strike such a heavy blow without the saint’s intervention. He returns home to a grateful family, who do not forget to thank God and St Þorlákr. Another young man was so poor that he had to live on food given to him by kind people, and what he was able to fish in fresh water. He sat for a whole day in the dark and cold winter, trying to fish through a hole in the ice. It wasn’t until he had prayed to St Þorlákr and promised to sing five Pater Nosters that his luck changed. He caught fifty fat fish when nobody else around him caught anything at all. Two stories tell of ships blown away in stormy weather but found again, unharmed, with the help of the saint. Ferry accidents, when crossing the river Hvítá, near Skálholt, are described in two stories. In both narratives, poor people want to travel on the ferry to Skálholt, probably hoping for alms. The ferry sinks but most of the passengers are saved. The ferryman, described as pious and generous towards the poor, saves the passengers by invoking St Þorlákr. He almost drowns, but then a miraculous hand appears and clears the water away from his face.13 Bishop Guðmundr Arason, the third Icelandic saint, had already gained the nickname inn góði “the good” while still a priest, thanks to his concern for the poor. He was renowned for his consecration of wells and springs at which people were healed. In chapter 87 of Guðmundar saga D, the narrator turns to his audience, saying that they have heard for a while about Guðmundr’s miracle-working through springs and waters;14 thereafter, he continues, it is fitting to learn about the wonders he has worked with the sea. The voice of the narrator refers to a chapter in the text describing how people in Iceland sustain themselves with livestock and by fishing. Although no Latin version has been preserved, the text, with its detailed information on fishing around Iceland, seems to have been written with a foreign audience in mind.15 It is emphasized how Bishop Guðmundr’s miraculous power helped people fishing or hunting seabirds and collecting eggs on dangerous cliffs. One story, preserved in several versions, tells of a man who asked Guðmundr to bless one strand of the rope he used for descending cliffs. During his descent, a gigantic hand appeared and made an attempt to cut the rope. The man was saved because the strand the bishop had blessed remained intact. A colourful story tells about the appearance of Selkolla “Seal-head”, an infamous shetroll, who alternately appeared as a beautiful woman or a female with the

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head of a seal.16 In folklore, seals appear as spellbound women or the devil incarnate. The Selkolla came into being when a couple were bringing a child to a church to be christened. On their way to the church, walking by the sea, the couple were overcome with lust. They placed the baby by a rock and enjoyed sex. When they returned, the infant looked blue and monstrous. The couple became terrified and abandoned it. The baby was never found but the Selkolla appeared where it had been placed. Her dangerous nature was sexual. She seduced a farmer in his boatshed near the sea by changing shape and taking on the guise of his wife. Margaret Ciklamini has pointed out that the Selkolla shares some features with the shape-changing skogsrå in Swedish legends.17 But, in the skogsrå tales, the forest is a place of magic and danger, whereas the Icelandic Selkolla dwells near the sea and she is partly a seal. The sea and the seashore, the place where land and sea meet, become the equivalent of the forest. Guðmundar saga tells of numerous disasters caused by Selkolla. The bishop manages to overcome her and submerge her with his powerful words. Still, she appears again to fishermen, but she is finally driven away by crosses put in the landscape by the bishop.18 During the ages when saints played a major role in people‘s lives, there were more “candidates” for sanctity than those who became recognized. Medieval Icelandic sources tell stories of individuals who are described with hagiographic traits.19 They may have been venerated for a short while, but they were never officially recognized as saints. Two of the potential saints are the hermit Ásólfr and the chieftain Hrafn Sveinbjarnarson. The tale of the Christian, pre-conversion settler Ásólfr is preserved in two redactions of Landnámabók: Sturlubók, from the latter half of the thirteenth century, and the slightly younger Hauksbók, dated to 1302 – 1310.20 Moreover, a shorter version of the Ásólfr narrative is included in Ólafs saga Tryggvasonar en mesta, probably composed in the early fourteenth century. Ásólfr is introduced as a good Christian who did not want to communicate with pagans or accept any food from them. When his neighbours wanted to know how he nourished himself, they discovered that a stream near his dwelling-place was wondrously filled with fish. In their envy, they drove him away. All the fish disappeared from the stream when they wanted to enjoy Ásólfr’s former food supply. The story repeats itself three times. In the Hauksbók version, Ásólfr is said to be Irish. It has been pointed out that the writer of this version may have recognized the fish-miracles as Irish. Fish-miracles are certainly characteristic of Irish saints, such as St Patrick and St Columcille, who could either curse or bless rivers and waters with fish. Hermann Pálsson has shown similarities with the Latin Life of St Brendan, where fifty rivers were miraculously

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filled with fish.21 Other saints cursed the rivers and all the fish disappeared. Miraculous catching of fish also occurs in non-Celtic saints’ Lives, such as the Life of St Martin, and could be copied from the gospel narratives. There may be other general Irish/Celtic characteristics to be considered. Ásólfr makes an overseas journey to become a hermit in a foreign country, which may connect him with early Irish saints.22 Hrafn Sveinbjarnarson was a chieftain from north-west Iceland. Besides being a chieftain, he was a renowned physician and a widely travelled pilgrim. His saga describes the feud between the protagonist Hrafn and his adversary, ending in his execution in 1213. Hrafn is described as a good Christian; he is peaceful, righteous, generous, shows mercy and rejects worldly wealth and glory. His adversary is depicted as the opposite, ambitious and avaricious. There are numerous biblical and hagiographic motifs in a saga about him, probably written about two decades after Hrafn’s execution.23 Hrafns saga Sveinbarnarsonar is a contemporary saga of thirteenth-century feuds, which was incorporated into the Sturlunga saga compilation from around the year 1300. The Sturlunga saga comprises a series of texts by different writers and forms a chronicle of Icelandic history during the period 1117 – 1264. Besides the Sturlunga saga version, a separate version of the saga has been preserved. The separate version contains hagiographic elements eliminated almost entirely when the saga was included in the Sturlunga saga compilation.24 In one of the first chapters of the saga, an attempt was made to kill a walrus that had swum to the shore. The walrus escaped but sank because it had been injured. Fishermen tried to catch it and bring it to land but without success. Hrafn Sveinbjarnarson invoked St Thomas of Canterbury and promised to offer the tusk to his shrine if the walrus could be brought to land.25 Hrafn kept his promise and travelled to Canterbury with the walrus tusk. The saga emphasizes Hrafn’s ability to travel on the sea and his skills as a navigator. When he accompanied bishop-elect Guðmundr Arason on his journey to be consecrated, they were storm-driven to the Suðreyjar “Hebrides”. The narrative puts emphasis on Hrafn’s skills as a navigator when the bishop-elect insisted that he take charge. The bishop-elect asked him to pilot, and at first Hrafn humbly refused. When he reluctantly agreed, the weather calmed down and they reached harbour in the Suðreyjar.26 This passage also appears in all versions of Guðmundar saga. The Guðmundar saga narratives are obviously based on the Hrafns saga text, but they put more emphasis on the bishop-elect. The focus is on the holiness of Guðmundr and his abilities to conquer stormy weather, and how he wisely put the virtuous Hrafn in charge of their ship. The otherwise unknown poet, Guðmundr Svertingsson, composed a poem on

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Hrafn’s saintly life and character. Eleven verses from it are included in the saga. Skaldic poets admittedly enjoyed describing ships and travels on the sea. It is interesting to note, however, how many stanzas in the poem tell of Hrafn’s perilous journeys on the sea, where the waves were high, blackness was to be seen over the side, but Hrafn took on the piloting of the ship at night in the face of fear, as the poet puts it, and succeeded in saving both ship and men.27 Hrafn’s pilgrimages strengthen his pious image. The saga tells of three journeys abroad and visits to four important pilgrim sites, made shortly before 1200. In addition to the previously mentioned journey to Canterbury, he travelled to St Giles, Rome and Santiago de Compostela. He is portrayed as a model of generosity, charity and hospitality, providing free meals for guests at his home and a free ferry service over the fjord near his farm: Hann átti ok skip á Barðaströnd. Þat höfðu allir þeir, er þurftu yfir Breiðafjörð. Ok af slíkri rausn Hrafns var sem brú væri á hvárum tveggjum firðinum fyrir hverjum er fara vildi. He kept a boat by Barðaströnd (a coastline in the south Westfjords region). All those who needed to cross Breiðafjörður could use it. Because of Hrafn’s generosity, it was as if there was a bridge over both fjords for everyone who needed to travel.28

Bridge-building was considered a good Christian deed, equal to making donations to the Church. It has been compared to the Requiem Mass, the aim of which is to help the souls of the dead to find the right way to God.29 Hrafn’s ferry may carry the same symbolic meaning. Guðrún P. Helgadóttir has drawn attention to similarities between Hrafns saga Sveinbjarnarsonar, Magnúss saga and Thómas saga. The death of Hrafn seems to be modelled on that of the Archbishop of Canterbury: the latter meets his death on his knees, Hrafn on his knees and elbows. Both are in a position of devotion and both bodies lie as if in prayer.30 The rough and barren field where Hrafn is slain becomes green and fertile the following summer. The place where St Magnus of Orkney is executed is stony and mossy, but after the martyr’s death it becomes green, fair and smooth.31 Magnúss saga eyjajarls, the Saga of St Magnus, earl of Orkney, survives in three Old Norse versions.32 A version was incorporated into Orkneyinga saga, probably composed at the end of the twelfth century and revised in the thirteenth century. A longer and a shorter version of a separate Magnúss saga have been preserved. The Old Norse versions were preserved and presumably composed in Iceland. A short Latin Legenda de

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Sancto Magno also survives. The sources tell how the young Magnus was conscripted by Magnús berfættr “Barefoot” king of Norway on an expedition into the Irish Sea. Earl Magnus refused to fight and devoted himself to reading the psalter instead and later fled from the king’s army. Most miracles of St Magnus of Orkney are cures. Almost all occur at the saint’s shrine. There is one interesting exception found in Orkneyinga saga and Magnúss saga skemmri, where St Magnus calms the weather to enable Bishop Vilhjámr to travel from Shetland to Orkney.33 The relevant chapter is missing in Magnúss saga lengri and the Legenda de Sancto Magno does not record the translation. The first miraculous cure is that of a blind farmer from Shetland, Bergfinnr Skaftason, who has his sight restored at St Magnus’ resting place. Two cripples in his company are also cured. The miracles reflect Isaiah 35, 5–6: “Then shall the eyes of the blind be opened and the ears of the deaf unstopped; then shall the lame man leap as an hart, and the tongue of the dumb shall sing”. These fundamental miracles indicate that Magnus is a true follower of Christ. When commemorating the day of his death, twenty-four persons are cured. Bishop Vilhjálmr is asked to exhume Magnus’ relics but the request is met with reluctance. One summer, the narrative continues, the bishop makes a journey to Norway. He returns in the autumn and makes a stop in Shetland. The weather turns stormy, the bishop dislikes being in Shetland and longs for home. The steersman asks the bishop to promise to translate the relics, if the weather improves, so that he can sing Mass on the following Sunday. The weather immediately changes for the better. Unfortunately, the bishop does not change his mind until he is struck blind and, in tears, has to invoke St Magnus. Then, finally, he acknowledges St Magnus’ sanctity and agrees to exhume the relics. This weather-miracle, together with the miraculous cures, marks the beginning of the cult of St Magnus.34 It is remarkable that a great number of the saint’s beneficiaries are from Shetland. The common theme of most Icelandic miracles is survival, a desire for health, enough food and security. Ships and boats had to be intact and in their place. Weather had to be favorable for fishing and travelling by water. The first known collection of Icelandic miracles was read aloud at the Alþingi in 1199. These were the miracles attributed to St Þorlákr Þórhallsson. It is likely that other Icelandic miracle collections were read aloud to the public, and it can be assumed that miracle stories were also orally transmitted. Originally, most miracle stories were oral stories that the beneficiaries told to priests or bishops. They were then written down and collected by clerical authorities, who shaped them according to the traditional language of hagiography. Miracles are therefore a dialogue

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between the clergy and the common people. While they express fear of sickness, hunger and danger, miracles also tell that problems could be solved by a saint’s intervention. Although most maritime miracles paint a positive picture of the sea as a food supply, its dangerous side is also apparent. Saints are invoked on perilous journeys at sea and even banish demons that emerge from the sea or lurk by the sea and threaten the Christian community. The audience could easily identify with stories of people who had been saved from hunger by miraculously catching fish or sea mammals, or rescued from perils at sea with the help and intervention of the saint. They, or at least those who wrote them down, would also have known that they reflected biblical narratives of Jesus calming the storm and his disciples fishing. For people living in harsh, Nordic surroundings, miracles of this kind must have been especially welcome.

Notes 1. Gunnar Karlsson, Iceland‘s 1100 Years. The History of a Marginal Society (London: C. Hurst & Co Publishers, 2000), 46 – 48. 2. Sverrir Tómasson, “Íslenskar Nikulás sögur,” in Helgastaðabók. Nikulás saga. Perg. 4to nr. 16, Konungsbókhlöðu í Stokkhólmi, 11 – 41 (Reykjavík: Lögberg, 1982), 22 – 23. 3. Biskupa sögur I, ed. Sigurgeir Steingrímsson, Ólafur Halldórsson, Peter Foote. Íslenzk fornrit 15 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2003); Biskupa sögur II, ed. Ásdís Egilsdóttir. Íslenzk fornrit 16 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2002). 4. Ronald C. Finucane, Miracles and Pilgrims: Popular Beliefs in Medieval England (London: Macmillan, 1995), 36. 5. Biskupa sögur II, 341 – 364. 6. Peter Foote, “Formáli,” in Biskupa sögur I, ccxv. 7. Stefán Karlsson, “Guðmundar sögur biskups: Authorial Viewpoints and Methods,” in Stafkrókar. Ritgerðir eftir Stefán Karlsson gefnar út í tilefni af sjötugsafmæli hans, 2. desember 1998 (Reykjavík: Stofnun Árna Magnússonar á Íslandi, 2000), 168-169. 8. Margaret Cushing Hunt, A Study of Authorial Perspective in Guðmundar saga A and Guðmundar saga D. Hagiography and the Icelandic Bishop´s Saga. (Ann Arbor: University Microfilms, 1986), 213-214. 9. Biskupa sögur II, 103 – 140. 10. Ibid., c – ci, 225 – 50, 261 – 285. 11. Foote, “Formáli”, cclxxi. Guðmundar saga manuscripts Stockh. Papp. 4to nr. 4 and AM 395 4to. 12. Biskupa sögur II, 103 – 140; Biskupa sögur II, 1 – 220, edited by Guðbrandur Vigfússon and Jón Sigurðsson (Copenhagen: Hið íslenzka bókmenntafélag,185878).

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13. Ibid., 139. 14. Ibid., 179. 15. Ibid, 179 – 180. 16. Ibid., 77 – 82. 17. Marlene Ciklamini, “Folklore and Hagiography in Arngrímr´s Guðmundar saga Arasonar,” Fabula 49 (2008), 1 – 18. 18. Biskupa sögur II 1858 – 78, 82. 19. Ásdís Egilsdóttir, “Recognized and Potential Saints in Medieval Iceland,” in Studies on Religion. Seeking Origins and Manifestations of Religion, eds. Joanna Popielska-Grzybowska, and Jadwiga Iwaszczuk, (Pultusk: Pultusk Academy of Humanities, 2011), 47 – 52. 20. Íslendingabók, Landnámabók, ed. Jakob Benediktsson. Íslensk fornrit I. (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1968), 61 – 65. 21. Hermann Pálsson, Keltar á Íslandi (Reykjavík: Háskólaútgáfan, 1996), 114 – 16. 22. Judith Jesch, “Some Early Christians in Landnámabók,” in The Sixth International Saga Conference 28/7 – 2/8 1985. Workshop Papers I – II (Copenhagen 1985), 516; Margaret Clunies Ross, “Saint" Ásólfr,” in Germanisches Altertum und christliches Mittelalter.” Festschrift für Heinz Klingenberg zum 65. Geburtstag, eds. Bela Brogyanyi, and Thomas Krömmelbein (Freiburg: Verlag Dr Kovac, 2002), 46 – 47; Ásdís Egilsdóttir, “The Hermit and the Milkmaid. The Tale of Ásólfr in Landnámabók and Ólafs saga Tryggvasonar en mesta,” in Conversions: Looking for Ideological Change in the Early Middle Ages, Studia Medievalia Septentrionalia 23, eds. Leszek Slupecki, and Rudolf Simek (Wien: Fassbaender, 2013), 28. 23. Guðrún P. Helgadóttir, “Preface,” in Hrafns saga Sveinbjarnarsonar, ed. Guðrún P. Helgsdóttir (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1987), xi –cxvi, xxi – xxxi; Ásdís Egilsdóttir, “Hrafn Sveinbjarnarson, Pilgrim and Martyr,” in Sagas, Saints and Settlements, eds. Gareth Williams, and Paul Bibire, The Northern World. North Europe and the Baltic c. 400 – 1700 AD. Peoples, Economics and Cultures Volume 1 (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2004), 33 – 39. 24. Guðrún P. Helgadóttir, “Hrafns saga Sveinbjarnarsonar and Sturlunga saga, On the Working Method of the Compilator of Sturlunga saga when including Hrafns saga in his Anthology,” Gripla 8 (1993), 55 – 80. 25. Hrafns saga Sveinbjarnarsonar, 3. 26. Ibid., 20 – 21. 27. Ibid., 21. 28. Ibid., 5. 29. Julie Lund, “Thresholds and Passages. The Meanings of Bridges and Crossings in the Viking Age and Early Middle Ages,” Viking and Medieval Scandinavia I (Turnhout: Brepols, 2005), 109 – 135. 30. Guðrún P. Helgadóttir, 1987, lxiv; Margaret Cormack, “Saints and sinners. Reflections on death in some Icelandic Sagas,” Gripla 8 (1993), 191. 31. Orkneyinga saga, ed. Finnbogi Guðmundsson. Íslenzk fornrit 34. (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1965), 364 – 369, 319 – 322, 106 – 111.

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32. Haki Antonsson, St Magnus of Orkney. A Scandinavian Martyr - Cult in Context (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2007). 33. Orkneyinga saga, 1965, 324. 34. Ibid., 324.

CHAPTER FOUR FROM “ÍSLAND” TO “EYLAND”: ISLANDS AND IDENTITY IN MEDIEVAL ICELAND TORFI H. TULINIUS

This Chapter explores the importance of Icelanders’ self-perception as islanders in the Middle Ages. By analysing texts from the early twelfth to the late thirteenth centuries, a pattern can be shown to emerge in which Icelanders, rather than constructing their identity as inhabitants of a country (land; Ísland), begin to use the more composite term of eyland “island-country”. This is related to the development of Icelandic historical writing, which begins by focusing on Iceland itself, before taking an interest in Norwegian kings, then in neighbouring island communities, before exploring its own society in the Sagas of Icelanders which represent Iceland as an eyland, both open to the rest of the world and a world unto itself. A simple glance at a map today tells us that Iceland is a comparatively large island in the middle of the North Atlantic, surrounded by wide expanses of ocean that separate it from its nearest neighbours. Island, insular, isolation: these are the terms that probably occur to most people when they think about Iceland and its inhabitants. When studying the culture of Viking and medieval Iceland, one must ask whether the notion of “island” or “islander” helps us understand how Icelanders themselves perceived their homeland in the Middle Ages. Did they conceive of themselves as inhabiting a small geographical space at some distance from the mainland, but nevertheless tributary to it, or did they view themselves as the occupants of a distant land, insular because it was surrounded by the sea, but nevertheless big enough to be considered a mainland in itself? In this Chapter, an attempt will be made to answer these questions by analysing a certain number of medieval Icelandic texts. Most attention will be given to two historical works, Íslendingabók “The Book of Icelanders”

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from the early twelfth century and Landnámabók “The Book of Settlement”, which has been preserved in versions from the second half of the thirteenth century. A century and a half separate these works. An attempt will be made to determine possible changes which took place in the Icelanders’ self-perception. That is why reference will also be made to Icelandic sagas that were composed in the interval between the composition of Íslendingabók and that of Landnámabók. Islands and islanders are important in these sagas, not only those that tell about the Orkney Islanders (Orkneyinga saga) and the Faroe Islanders (Færeyinga saga), but also the so-called Íslendingasögur “Sagas of Icelanders”. What does this spectrum of works written by several generations tell us about the identity of their authors and audience? As a concept, identity needs to be handled with care. The notion of “narrative identity”, as developed by philosopher Paul Ricœur, seems relevant to the topic of this Chapter.1 Building on previous work on narrative, he addressed in his book “Oneself as Another” more traditional philosophical issues such as the paradox of the self, which is both everchanging and yet always the same. In this sense, it is like the river evoked by pre-Socratic philosopher Heraclitus, which one can never enter twice as the water running through it is never the same.2 Narrative identity encompasses both of these aspects of our selves. Like the coin which always has two sides, identity includes both “sameness” and “self”.3 We always remain the individual we are from birth to grave and beyond, but we change also, either through decision or circumstance. It is because we are able to tell stories that we can grasp the fact that we remain who we are, though we are never the same. By configuring our experience of time, narrative also renders intelligible the experience of change, of how the self in one state both becomes and remains the self in a subsequent state.4 It guarantees, so to speak, the unity of a life despite its inherent fragmentation. For Ricoeur, narrative identity is therefore neither stable nor immutable. It is flexible, mobile, even to some extent a work of fiction, in the sense that it has no tangible existence; it is a mental construct.5 “Narrative identity” can also be used for collective identity, which is not only the sum of individual identities, but also a construct in itself that communities develop in different ways but very much by telling stories. The stories Icelanders in the Middle Ages narrated about themselves concerned among other things the first settlers, where they came from and where they established themselves. The first historical writings date from the early decades of the twelfth century and are attributed to Ari the Learned.6 He composed Íslendingabók, which describes Iceland’s early

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history and the establishment of the main social institutions of the country, such as the establishment of the Alþingi “General Assembly” in 930 AD, the conversion to Christianity in 1000 AD and the establishment of the first bishoprics in the late eleventh century. Ari was both a priest and a member of the chieftain class. He wrote in the 1120s, invoking the authority of the bishops, and was one of the leading chieftains of the country at the time. A short and succinct work, carefully citing its informants, Íslendingabók defines Iceland as a society of settlers, mainly coming from Norway, but also describes a form of self-government which is particular to the country.7 Whether or not people believe that the way Íslendingabók describes the origins of the principal institutions of self-governing Iceland is sufficient to call it a state - an idea inherent in the widespread English-language labelling of this period in Iceland’s history as the “Free-State Period” - we can say without any doubt that it establishes an identity for the Icelanders in the twelfth century: they were a nation ruled by their own law and members of the universal Catholic Church.8 This identity is a narrative one, as it describes the settlement and the progressive establishment through time of the country’s main institutions. Leaving aside the important question of whether this identity was that of one social group, essentially male property owners occupying a dominant position within society, the issue which will be addressed here is that of the notion of island or islander as a component in this identity. As a statement of identity, it is therefore interesting to note that Íslendingabók never calls Iceland an island. When referring to the country, it most frequently designates it by its name, Iceland, but on rare occasions also as a “land”, as it does for Greenland.9 However, the notion of island is of course well known to Icelanders. Like all of the inhabitants of the medieval North Atlantic area, Norwegians, Faroese, Shetlanders, Hebrideans and Orkney Islanders, as well as Danes and Swedes, Icelanders had a very practical experience of islands. They were seafaring people inhabiting and travelling between countries which had many islands, more or less distant from their coasts, some of them archipelagos. Going from one island to another was a convenient way to travel long distances, enabling you to seek shelter, replenish your stock of water, cook a decent meal. Many prosperous farms or centres of power along the west coast of Norway were on islands, for example Bjarkøya in Hålogaland. The three archipelagos of Shetland, Orkney and the Hebrides were convenient stepping-stones on the sailing routes between the west coast of Norway and the British Isles, but also to Iceland and Greenland, as the Icelandic sagas tell us, even though they

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were also the centre of the worlds of those who inhabited them. Islands were therefore more of a fact of life rather than a concept. The concept exists nevertheless, as is apparent in the vocabulary: ey, eyja and eyland are all used to designate islands of different sizes. In a fourteenth-century version of Snorri Sturluson’s Edda, there is even a definition of island as það land sem sjór eða vatn fellur umhverfis “a piece of land surrounded by sea or fresh water”.10 In the development of Icelandic literature, there is however a gap between the self-representation – or identity-building – as witnessed in the Íslendingabók by Ari the Learned, and a new literary form which emerges sometime during the first decades of the thirteenth century, the Íslendingasögur.11 These are a sub-group of the sagas and possibly the most interesting. There are around forty in total, and what defines them is that they all have as main characters Icelanders living in the period from the Settlement in the late ninth century to the Conversion of Iceland around 1000 AD. They are all therefore historical in the sense that they refer to a shared perception of this period in Icelandic history, as established by Ari approximately a hundred years before, though their historical veracity is often – and justifiably – called into question.12 Over the last few decades, scholars have increasingly considered these sagas – irrespective of how much they believe they are rooted in a tradition of oral story-telling – as principally reflecting the values, representations and concerns of thirteenth-century Icelanders, especially members of the dominant classes. One could also say that all of these sagas ponder the identity of the Icelandic community – or at least members of this community – even though they do it in different ways.13 When considering the question of whether living on an island was a component of this identity, it is of interest to think about the literary developments which occurred in the gap between Ari’s writing of Íslendingabók and the appearance of the Íslendingasögur, between the first elaboration of Iceland’s narrative identity and a second wave of exploration of this same identity through a profusion of narratives composed over a century later. In the intermediary period, Icelandic authors, but also some others, wrote about the history of Norwegian and Danish kings. They wrote about communities which shared the same type of relationship with these Nordic kingdoms as they did. The saga of the Jómsvíkings, a community of Vikings in the Baltic, the saga of the Faroe Islanders, an archipelago on the sailing route between Shetland and Iceland, and the saga of the Norse jarls, or earls, of Orkney, known as Orkneyinga saga, have all – with more or less certainty – been dated before or around 1200, a decade or two before the writing down of the first

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sagas about early Icelanders.14 It is interesting that the Icelanders write about what is in some way the centre of their world, the kingdom of Norway, the place where their bishops go to be consecrated, but also where they trade, and most importantly seek honour at the royal court through poetry and prowess. Then they seem to go on to write about communities that are in a similar situation to themselves, communities of people of Norse origin living on islands. It is then that they return to writing about themselves, but this time in more elaborate and literary narratives than the one found in the early twelfth-century Íslendingabók. Of course, the Jómsvíkings belong more or less to a past soon becoming legendary by the time their saga is written down. But Orkney and Shetland as well as the Faroe Islands were an important part of the reality of Icelanders at the turn of the thirteenth century. The sagas tell us that there was considerable sailing between Iceland and their neighbours, as well as trade and the development of friendships. The earls of Orkney were often related to Icelandic chieftains and were probably to some extent a model for the more ambitious among the chieftains. There is evidence of considerable interaction between the literary and/or poetic milieux of Iceland and Orkney.15 The composition of Orkneyinga saga is testimony to the strong relationship between the earldom and Iceland. More importantly, it is also a witness to the interest Icelanders took in their neighbours in the North Atlantic while they were experiencing the Norwegian kings’ increasing appetite for domination. The preserved and, to some extent, reconstructed version of the saga is not quite the one composed before or around 1200. We do not know, for example, if the story of the origins of the Orkney earls in proto-historical Norway was part of this or not. Some scholars believe that it was a later invention, possibly by Snorri Sturluson, writing in the 1220s.16 It is both colourful and memorable, and can be understood as an aetiological tale, since it defines the earls of Orkney as islanddwellers and sea-kings. Moreover, it seems to be a clever adaptation of the historical story of the Norwegian king Magnús berfættr “Barefoot”, who claimed the peninsula of Kintyre by demonstrating that it was an island when he sat at the helm of his ship while it was being drawn over its isthmus. This was a clever ploy to demonstrate that the southern part of the peninsula was in fact separate from the mainland and not, therefore, under the control of the mainland kings. In the same vein, the aetiological tale of Orkneyinga saga seems to be there to make a distinction between islands that are close to the mainland and those that are further away. It can be interpreted as defining the Orkney earls as sækonungar “sea-kings”, leaders of men who spend most

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of their time on raiding expeditions, but have their headquarters in the islands. That is very much the impression given by Orkneyinga saga, which describes the polity of Orkney/Shetland/Hebrides and Caithness as a very unstable one. There are sometimes several earls at the same time and violent tension between them because of conflicting claims to sovereignty over the islands.17 In addition, the earls of Orkney are very often disturbed by the involvement of Norwegian kings in their affairs. They use the islands as bases for further attempts at conquest, and take them over to give them to one of their clients.18 This is in line with the story of the origins of the earldom: King Harald Finehair gave the islands to the earls and they must always answer to the Norwegian king. If one thinks of Orkneyinga saga from the point of view of an Icelander of the chieftain class writing around 1200 and reflecting on his own relationship with the Norwegian kingdom, this picture of an earldom ravaged by conflict and at the mercy of a neighbouring king cannot be considered an attractive one. Færeyinga saga, the saga of the Faroe Islanders, tells a slightly different story. Here there are no earls. The saga portrays the society of the Islands as founded by settlers from Norway, though that is not necessarily historical fact. However, it aligns the history of the Islands with Icelanders’ perception of their own history. The difference between Iceland and the Faroes is that the Islanders must pay tribute to the Norwegian rulers,19 which leads to internal fighting, compounded by ancient feuds and competition for power among the main families. These feuds and competition seem to be made more virulent by the fact that the Norwegian king claims authority over the Islands. Though received wisdom dates Færeyinga saga to around 1200, its time of writing has recently been revised by linguist and philologist Helgi Guðmundsson. He supplies evidence that points to the saga having been composed as late as the 1270s, possibly by Sturla Þórðarson, a key figure in the bloody struggles between the leading families of Iceland from 1220 onwards, which were part of the chain of events leading to the submission of the Icelanders to the Norwegian king in the 1260s. Sturla and several other important players in these conflicts had to spend a winter in the Faroe Islands on their way to Norway in 1277. These might be the circumstances in which the saga was composed. The tale of the protracted feud between Þrándur í Götu, the trickster who supposedly used magic to keep the ships of the Norwegian king from coming to the Islands, and Sigmundr Brestisson, hero of the conversion of the Faroese but also a royal representative, reflects the struggle-ridden society of Iceland during the preceding decades.20

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The narratives composed in Iceland from around 1200 onwards about neighbouring island communities therefore suggest that contemporary authors may have been thinking about the same issues regarding Iceland itself. It is therefore of interest to consider works about Icelanders from this period. We will begin by considering another of Ari Þorgilsson’s early twelfth-century works, Landnámabók. Ari’s original version of this work is now lost. However, we have a late thirteenth-century version of it, attributed with considerable certainty to the aforementioned Sturla Þórðarson, and a slightly younger redaction made by Haukr Erlendsson in the first decade of the fourteenth century. In his epilogue to the work, Haukr mentions his forerunners in writing about the Settlement, Ari, of course and Sturla, but also a person belonging to a generation before that of Sturla, the priest and abbot of the monastery at Viðey, Styrmir Kárason, who died in 1245.21 In a recent book, Icelandic historian Sveinbjörn Rafnsson proposes that Sturla, Styrmir, or an even earlier unknown writer working sometime around the year 1200, revised Ari’s version, giving it what Rafnsson calls the narrativized form of the Settlement story.22 What are the changes that were made to the work? This question is of relevance to the question of whether or not the notion of island was an important component of the Icelanders’ identity in the thirteenth century. Its answer is, however, somewhat conjectural, as Rafnsson has only little and mostly circumstantial evidence of what Ari’s original work from the twelfth century was like. He maintains that it was organized in four parts, each devoted to one of the country’s quarters - west, north, east and south - and that it contained the names of the original settlers of most of the main farms and domains as well as of their descendants. The narrativization involves essentially three things: 1. A prologue on the discovery of Iceland, culminating with the dramatic story of the first settler, Ingólfr, whose domain would eventually become Reykjavík, on the western edge of the southern quarter. Ingólfr is a noble Norwegian, forced to flee the encroaching power of King Harald Finehair. 2. A disruption of the original organization of the text, since the new addition on Ingólfr calls for the description of the settlement quarter by quarter to be changed. Ingólfr’s settlement is described first, even though it is in the western part of the southern quarter. Then the description follows the succession of settlements clockwise, describing the western, then the northern and the eastern quarters, finally coming back to the southern quarter at the end. This is illogical and Sveinbjörn Rafnsson sees in it the remains of an older stage of the text before such

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Chapter Four importance was given to the first settler and the circumstances of his departure from Norway. 3. The third change is the incorporation of longer and shorter narratives about other settlers, some taken from sagas about early Icelanders, a genre that had appeared in the eighty years between the two versions of the book.23

Of interest to the present inquiry is how Sveinbjörn Rafnsson’s study relates the two versions of Landnámabók to two moments in Icelandic history, which both call for a new definition of Icelanders’ collective identity. In the early twelfth century, the Church is well established in the country, but also under the control of the local chieftain class.24 Íslendingabók can be read as an illustration of how the Peace of God brings order and stability to a country, as it shows how the introduction of Christianity is a decision made to preserve the peace and leads to the foundation of institutions that consolidate a peaceful social order. The original twelfth-century Landnámabók shows this order in a different way, by describing the origin of property and power, and by arranging this description in such a way that Iceland becomes a microcosm, replicating the medieval worldview as illustrated by the mappa mundi of the period. Like Iceland, the world is surrounded by the ocean and divided into four quarters. The twelfth-century clerical magnates responsible for these two works are possibly describing the country as almost a utopia. It is not long since Adam of Bremen wrote in his History of the Archbishops of Hamburg-Bremen that the Icelanders had no king, only law, but that their bishop ruled like a king over them. However, the new narrativized version of Landnámabók situates Iceland in more detail geographically. It also inserts an account of how one of its discoverers, Garðar Svavarsson, sailed around it, thereby establishing its insularity.25 However, the word used is not island, ey, but eyland, an island which is also a country, a fragment which is also a world unto itself. The most important theme of the new narrativized version is, however, the relationship with the Norwegian monarchy. The older version just states that Iceland was mainly settled by people of Norwegian stock. In the new one, most of them are fleeing a king whose growing power is limiting their freedom. They find new opportunities in this big island far away to the north-west, protected by the dangerous waves of the North Atlantic. It can barely be a coincidence that the Íslendingasögur appear as a separate genre within the saga literature during the same period. The strengthening of the Norwegian monarchy in the second third of the thirteenth century, having been undermined by civil war for over a century, raises the question of Icelanders’ allegiance to the neighbouring king.26 Íslendingasögur

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explore this relationship, as do the “Sagas of Kings”. However, the former group also takes an interest in their own society, its characteristics and ambiguities.27 In many ways they can be seen as exploring an insular identity, characterized by an openness to and fascination with the rest of the world, but at the same time a preoccupation with life on the island as a world unto itself. So what has been learned from this exploration of islands and identity in medieval Icelandic literature? First, islands are a material aspect of life creating both obstacles and opportunities. Distance matters also. Second, communities which are peripheral to the increasingly powerful and organized Norwegian monarchy are feeling pressure. Third, Icelandic writers are exploring the effects of this pressure by telling stories of communities whose situation is similar to theirs. Fourth, we have – if Sveinbjörn Rafnsson is right – two moments in their changing definition of Icelandic identity in the different versions of Landnámabók. Fifth, over a period extending from the early twelfth century until at least the end of the thirteenth, Icelanders used their literature to explore aspects of their identity as a society, one that is both open to the rest of the world but also a world unto itself: both Ísland and eyland. This proves Paul Ricoeur’s point that identity is ever-changing, but given continuity and even coherence through narrative. It brings one finally back to the observation made earlier, that the construction of identity involves the exercise of some kind of agency which has a lasting effect. The intense literary activity of a group of Icelanders in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries left statements of identity, true or untrue, but which became realities in themselves. Much later, in the nineteenth century, they would become the basis on which Icelandic scholars and poets would construct an identity to fit into a different time and context: Iceland as an independent nation.28

Notes 1. Paul Ricœur, Oneself as Another, trans. Kathleen Blamey (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992), 140-151. 2. William Keith Chambers Guthrie, A History of Greek Philosophy : Volume 1, The Earlier Presocratics and the Pythagoreans (Cambridge : Cambridge University Press, 1978), 489. 3. Ricœur, Oneself as Another, 140-141. 4. Ibid., 142. 5. Ibid., 147-148. 6. Jónas Kristjánsson, Eddas and Sagas: Iceland’s Medieval Literature, trans. Peter Foote (Reykjavík: Hið íslenska bókmenntafélag, 1988), 120-124.

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7. Reference will be made to the 1968 edition of this text by Jakob Benediktsson, see Íslendingabók. Landnámabók, ed. Jakob Benediktsson, Íslenzk fornrit I (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1968). Siân Grønlie provides an excellent English translation with a useful introduction, see Íslendingabók. Kristni saga. The Book of the Icelanders. The Story of the Conversion, trans. Siân Grønlie (London: Viking Society for Northern Research Text Series, Volume XVIII, 2006). 8. Sverrir Jakobsson, Við og veröldin (Reykjavík: Háskólaútgáfan, 2005), 280. 9. Íslendingabók. Landnámabók, 1968. For references to Iceland as a “land” see pages 9, 12, 14, 17, 22. Grønlie translates this in most cases as “country”, see pages 5, 7, 9. 10. Snorri Sturluson, Uppsala-Edda. Uppsalahandritið DG 11 4to, ed. Heimir Pálsson (Reykjavík: Snorrastofa í Reykholti and Opna, 2013), 323. See also Kristel Zilmer, “The Power and Purposes of an Insular Setting – On some Motifs in OldNorse Literature” in Isolated Islands in Medieval Nature, Culture and Mind, eds. Torstein Jørgensen, and Gerhard Jaritz (Budapest: Central European University Press, 2011), 25. 11. Vésteinn Ólason, “Family sagas,” in A Companion to Old Norse-Icelandic Literature and Culture, ed. Rory McTurk (Oxford: Blackwell, 2005), 112. 12. Jónas Kristjánsson, Eddas and Sagas, 204-206. 13. Torfi H. Tulinius, “The Self as Other. Iceland and Christian Europe in the Middle Ages,” Gripla XX (2009), 213. 14. On the dating of Færeyinga saga, see Peter Foote, “Færeyinga saga,” in Medieval Scandinavia. An Encyclopedia, eds. Phillip Pulsiano, and Kirsten Wolf (New York and London: Garland Publishing Inc.,1993), 222. On that of Jómsvíkinga saga, see Ólafur Halldórsson, “Jómsvíkinga saga,” in Medieval Scandinavia. An Encyclopedia, eds. Phillip Pulsiano, and Kirsten Wolf (New York and London: Garland Publishing Inc.,1993), 343. On the date of composition of Orkneyinga saga, see Michael Chesnutt, “Orkneyinga saga,” in Medieval Scandinavia. An Encyclopedia, eds. Phillip Pulsiano, and Kirsten Wolf (New York and London: Garland Publishing Inc., 1993), 456. 15. Judith Jesch, “Literature in Medieval Orkney,” in The World of Orkneyinga Saga. The Broad-Cloth Viking Trip, ed. Olwyn Owen (Kirkwall: Orkney Museums and Heritage, 2005), 21-22. 16. Orkneyinga saga, ed. Finnbogi Guðmundsson, Íslenzk fornrit 34 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1965), 3-7. On Snorri’s possible authorship of the first chapters of the extant saga and its relationship to the account involving Magnús Barelegs, see p. xv. 17. Ibid., e.g. 30; 71-73; 105. 18. Ibid., e.g. 16; 33; 56; 141. 19. Færeyinga saga. Ólafs saga Tryggvasonar eftir Odd munk, ed. Ólafur Halldórsson. Íslenzk fornrit 25, (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2006), 59. 20. Helgi Guðmundsson, Land úr landi (Reykjavík: Háskólaútgáfan, 2002), 12-27. 21. Íslendingabók. Landnámabók, 1968, 395-397. 22. Sveinbjörn Rafnsson, Sögugerð Landnámabókar. Um íslenska sagnaritun á 12. og 13. Öld (Reykjavík: Sagnfræðistofnun Háskóla Íslands, 2001), 14. 23. Rafnsson, Sögugerð Landnámabókar, 14-16; 161-166.

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24. Orri Vésteinsson, The Christianization of Iceland. Priests, Power, and Social Change 1000-1300 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 182-189. 25. Íslendingabók. Landnámabók, 1968, 35-36. 26. Ármann Jakobsson, Í leit að konungi. Konungsmynd íslenskra konungasagna (Reykjavík: Háskólaútgáfan, 1997), 320. 27. Torfi H. Tulinius, “The Matter of the North. Fiction and Uncertain Identities in thirteenth-century Iceland,” in Old Icelandic Literature and Society, Cambridge Studies in Medieval Literature 42, ed. Margaret Clunies Ross (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 261. 28. Guðmundur Hálfdanarson, “Interpreting the Nordic past: Icelandic medieval manuscripts and the construction of a modern nation,” in The Uses of the Middle Ages in Modern European States: History, Nationhood and the Search for Origins, eds. Robert J.W. Evans, and Guy P. Marchal (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010), 52-71.

CHAPTER FIVE INSULARITY IN THE OLD NORSE ÍSLENDINGASÖGUR ANNA KATHARINA HEINIGER

Introduction Throughout the ages, Western Europeans have regarded islands as noteworthy places and have devoted special attention and interest to them. Having been associated with a wide range of features, mostly binary opposites, islands have inspired people’s minds in innumerable ways and are long-established literary and artistic motifs. As illustrated on the mappae mundi, the Middle Ages marginalised the North and consequently Scandinavia and its islands. These regions were thought uninhabitable for man and only fit for strange and violent peoples. This Chapter will investigate if and how the Icelandic self-perception as found in the Íslendingasögur “Sagas of Icelanders” reflects the continental, hegemonic, negative stigmatisation of the North in combination with the long-standing tradition of islands as liminal space. But once you isolate yourself on a little island in the sea of space, and the moment begins to heave and expand in great circles, the solid earth is gone, and your slippery and naked dark soul finds herself out in the timeless world […]. You are out in the other infinity. (D. H. Lawrence. The Man Who Loved Islands. 1928)

Ever since the Odyssey, literary islands have been serving the most diverse purposes:1 at times they appear as arcane or mystic places, or quite the opposite as prisons or other remote and entrapped places. Equally often, they pose as ideal caches of immense treasures or are used as fields of thought experiments.2 It comes as no surprise then that – in contrast to circumstances on the mainland – islands’ apparent isolation and difficult accessibility have always fired people’s imagination. John Gillis comments

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on the number of prominent fictitious islands in European literature: “Still today islands provide more scope to the Western imagination than any other land form.”3 The present Chapter investigates how islands are portrayed in a selection of Old Norse literature, and whether these islands function as special or even liminal places. This exploration will be based on a discussion of various ancient and medieval examples and aspects regarding insularity and the North in general. The focus will then be shifted to the depiction of islands in three selected Íslendingasögur.4 The aim of the Chapter is not to directly compare the different notions and perceptions of islands, but rather to render an impression of how rich and diverse the insular discourse – strongly informed by Antiquity – was during the Middle Ages in Western and Northern Europe. The spotlight on Scandinavia and Iceland in particular is interesting, firstly because of the numerous insular communities in the North Atlantic in medieval times, and secondly because of the relationship between the mainland and the innumerable islands off the coast.

What is an Island? To begin with, one should consider what an island actually is, not least with regard to the medieval Western European conception of insularity. Although this question appears rather superfluous and rhetorical at first sight, numerous definitions of what constitutes an island have been put forward over time and by various authors and scholars. As divergent as the definitions are, they all agree that islands strongly emphasise spatial aspects, such as, for example, the Oxford Dictionary, which defines the island as “a piece of land surrounded by water.”5 This strong emphasis on space happens at the expense of the temporal axis, which is minimised or even neglected. Hence islands appear as “places out of time,”6 or as D. H. Lawrence puts it in the quotation at the beginning of this Chapter, on an island the “naked dark soul finds herself out in the timeless world.” In his article Archipele der Erinnerung: die Insel als Topos der Kulturisation, Christian Moser traces the diachronic development of the island as a cultural and literary topos. In this context, he points out that the European insularity tradition is familiar with two contrasting ideas of islands.7 On the one hand, there is the positive, well-defined, unambiguous island that is easily located and described: [Die Insel verheisst] Orientierung, Sicherheit und Stabilitiät. Sie erscheint somit als der Inbegriff eines deutlich markierten Ortes. Das Meer fungiert einerseits als Hindernis, als Schutzwall, der die Insel vor Übergriffen

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Chapter Five bewahrt. Es verleiht ihr andererseits eine scharfe Kontur, die sie greifbar und beherrschbar erscheinen lässt. [The island promises] orientation, shelter and stability. It appears to be the acme of a clearly demarcated place. The sea functions as an impediment, as a barrier, that protects the island from assaults. Moreover, the sea gives the island a clear outline that makes the island tangible and controllable.8

On the other hand, islands appear as floating and rather fuzzy entities which have no stable form and change their location. Being out of time and place, somewhere between land and water, this kind of island is often associated with metamorphosis and enchantment: [Inseln] haben etwas von dem Element, in dem sie sich befinden: Sie sind flüchtig, flüssig und unstet wie das Meer selbst, grenzen sich diesem gegenüber also nicht ab, sondern öffnen sich ihm. [Islands] have something of the element they are situated in: they are elusive, fluid and as unsteady as the sea itself, not closing themselves off 9 but opening up towards it.

These two equally prominent aspects of the island topos illustrate that the character of islands – at least in literature – is not as easy to grasp as it might seem. Islands can assume a wide range of very positive to very negative characteristics and connotations, or even combine them and so move into the sphere of liminality. Islands’ significance and role are mostly based on their outstanding and ambiguous interplay of the elements of land and water: literary islands are neither vast landmasses nor are they part of the sea, and yet they are closely linked to both. This indeterminacy also creates confusion when it comes to the associations of the single elements: “In Western cosmogony, water stands for chaos, land for order. Islands are a third kind of place […] something betwixt and between. As liminal places, […] we use them as thresholds to other worlds and new lives.”10 The use of the phrase “betwixt and between” goes back to the Scottish anthropologist Victor Turner (1920-1983). Building on Arnold van Gennep’s concept of the tripartite rite of passage with its liminal midphase,11 Turner considers society shaped and driven by the complementary and alternating phases of structure and anti-structure.12 Framed by two phases of structure, anti-structure – or the “betwixt and between” as Turner termed it – is thus the purview of liminality. Due to its state of inbetweenness, liminality is characteristically ruled by paradoxes and ambiguities: “The coincidence of opposite processes and notions in a

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single representation characterizes the peculiar unity of the liminal: that which is neither this nor that [i.e., neither the former social status nor the new positon to come], and yet is both.”13 Based on the Latin term limen, translated as “threshold, doorway, door”, both van Gennep and Turner consider liminality as the realm of “the unbounded, the infinite, the limitless”,14 which figures as the figurative threshold into a new phase of life. Although liminality originally refers to social actions only, islands have often been said to be liminal places due to their apparent position of being entirely surrounded by water, and, probably even more important, the fact that they can assume a wide variety of positive and negative characteristics: POSITIVE 15 wholeness and safety recovery Paradise point of welcome continuity connection origin place of desire feeling free connectedness to world mastery

NEGATIVE fragmentation and vulnerability loss Hell quarantine/exile separation isolation extinction place of fear feeling trapped solitude powerlessness

These features make “the island” an entity which is hard to grasp, as one never really knows what to expect. In this regard, the island certainly is a special, at times even liminal, place, which invites paradoxes and ambiguities. It will be interesting to see how the examples to be discussed below sympathise with either column of Gillis’ list.

Scandinavia on the Mappae Mundi The Latin term mappae mundi means “world maps” and refers to graphical depictions of the medieval worldview.16 The maps are oriented towards the East and depict the continents of Asia, Europe and Africa, which are connected to Jerusalem, the very centre of the map and hence of the world. The depiction of the world itself is reminiscent of an island which is surrounded by the world river Oceanus. The biblical and historical elements, which dominate all the mappae mundi, indicate that

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these maps were not intended for geographical or nautical support, but rather illustrate the path to salvation. Therefore, the maps require, in the first place, a theological, philosophical and symbolical reading.17 The medieval worldview of Northern Europe and the North in general was rather unfavourable, which has left clear traces on the mappae mundi. The Christian world assigns Northern Europe a marginal position and stigmatizes it negatively. Medieval, continental cosmography, which was heavily informed by theology, regarded Scandinavia as uninhabitable because it was considered too cold and dark to allow for human life. Moreover, the Middle Ages’ reluctance to discover terra incognita “unknown land” left the North more or less unexplored for a long time: Der Norden bleibt mithin für das Mittelalter eine dunkle Region, die zu ergründen sich niemand beeilte, denn sie bedeutete nicht nur Kälte und Dunkelheit, sondern galt für die Christen zudem als Ort der Verdammten. […] the North remains for the Middle Ages a dark region, which nobody was eager to fathom, as it not only stood for coldness and darkness but was seen by Christianity as a place of the damned.18

The makers of mappae mundi thus decided not to waste valuable parchment on an unknown and irrelevant part of the world.19 But as Scandinavia could not simply be erased from the maps, it got squeezed to or even pushed over the very fringe of the inhabited world, and was thought to be the home of wicked peoples20 and monsters that had no hope of redemption. Not being in close contact with the North was therefore advisable. Due to this deficient knowledge of Northern Europe, the designers of mappae mundi faced considerable difficulties when it came to the depiction of Scandinavia.21 In addition to the negative stigmatisation, the real geographical outlines of Northern Europe were not known either. A great many depictions were thus inspired by speculation and fantasy, and, as a result, illustrations of Scandinavia prove highly inconsistent and differ substantially with regard to the number, form and geographical position of Scandinavia’s islands, peninsulas and mainland. Three interesting yet completely different representations of Scandinavia illustrate these problematic issues. These are the Cottonian Map (or Anglo-Saxon Map; before 1050 AD), the Oxford Map (around 1100 AD) and the Henry of Mainz Map (twelfth/thirteenth century). All Figures22 may be found at the end of the Chapter. While the maker of the Cottonian Map proved to have a rather solid knowledge of Northern Europe (Figures 5.1 and 5.2), maps like the one from Oxford or the Henry of Mainz Map

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make it hard for a modern audience to recognise Scandinavia. The Oxford Map (Figure 5.3) does not feature any region labelled “Scandinavia” or “Germania” and only shows the islands of Thule and Ireland (Hibernia), which are, in addition, clearly pushed over the edge of the world’s orb (Figure 5.4). The Henry of Mainz Map (Figure 5.5) depicts Scandinavia, but the portrayed cluster of islands23 and peninsulas bears no resemblance to today’s maps nor do the ambiguous labels shed light on the identity of the different parts (Figure 5.6).

Iceland: Perceptions from the Outside and the Inside As shown on the Cottonian Map and the Oxford Map, the enigmatic Island of Thule appears on many mappae mundi, either on its own or in addition to Iceland. This double depiction derives from a crossover of the cultural and geographical knowledge of Antiquity and of the Nordic World: while Thule was well known in the ancient tradition, which tends to depict Thule negatively, the Scandinavian worldview is familiar with it and depicts it as the “real” island of Iceland.24 In spite of being enormously distant from the Mediterranean and Greece, Thule is important to Antiquity’s geographical worldview since it marks the northernmost point of the known inhabited world.25 Among others, Pytheas of Massalia (380-310 BC, On the Ocean) and a few centuries later Ptolemy (100-160 AD, Geographia) try to locate Thule. For a modern reader, however, it is difficult to reconstruct which island they might have thought was Thule, and whether their Thule refers to a “real” island at all. Still, many scholars who deal with the issue of Thule/Iceland base their statements on scholars from Antiquity. Indications for Thule being Iceland are often found in two shared features of these two islands: firstly, the fact that the island lies six days of sailing from the mainland; and secondly, the fact that darkness rules during the winter, while the sun never disappears during the summer. Almost a millennium after Pytheas, the German Adam of Bremen wrote his substantial work, Gesta Hammaburgensis Ecclesiae Pontificum (1075-76 AD). In the fourth volume, Descriptio insularum Aquilonis,26 Adam quotes ancient sources and observes: Insula Thyle, quae per infinitum a ceteris secreta longe in medio sita est occeano, vix inquiunt nota habetur. The island Thule, which, separated from the others by endless stretches, is situated far off in the midst of the ocean, is, they say, barely known.27

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Adam of Bremen is also one of the first who unambiguously identifies Thule with Iceland: Haec itaque Thyle nunc Island appellatur “This Thule is now called Iceland.”28 In strong contrast to other sources, Adam does not describe its inhabitants as barbarous or evil. Despite their poverty and rather primitive living conditions, he depicts them as beata gens “happy people”, who live simplicitate sancta vitam “a life of holy simplicity”29 with the Biblical principle of altruism. So, Gesta Hammaburgensis quite unexpectedly presents Thule-Iceland as a blessed place of Paradise-like, social conditions.30 In contrast to Adam of Bremen, the Dane Saxo Grammaticus and the anonymous Norwegian author of Konungs skuggsjá “The King’s Mirror” (1260-70 AD), do not speak favourably of Iceland in their respective works. Moreover, neither work explicitly approaches the issue of Thule/Iceland. Konungs skuggsjá speaks of Ísland “Iceland” throughout and does not mention Thule at all. Saxo refers to Iceland both as Glacialis and Tyle (Thule), however, without discussing or exploring the identification of Thule with Iceland.31 Saxo mentions Iceland only briefly in two instances in the preface to his huge work Gesta Danorum (c.1200 AD). He addresses the issue that Icelanders make up for the barrenness and the poor living conditions of their land with their knowledge: they are “compensating for poverty by their intelligence.”32 Both Gesta Danorum as well as Konungs skuggsjá report the marvellous nature of Iceland, which features peculiarities like splashing geysers, waterfalls whose water petrifies everything it wets, and ice floes which make noises reminiscent of tortured souls. While Saxo adopts a rather neutral and impersonal tone, Konungs skuggsjá sketches Iceland as a place of torment and doom where God shows his power: Nú ætla ég það vist, að hvervetna þar sem mikil ákefð verður í slíkum ógnar hlutum, að þar eru víst píslarstaðir. Now it seems evident to me that, wherever such a great violence appears and in such terrible forms, there surely must be places of torment.33

Except for Adam’s positive, though theologically and ideologically motivated, depiction of Thule and Saxo’s fairly neutral account, the portrayal of Iceland is, by and large, not very favourable for the North Atlantic Island, not even in works of mainland Scandinavian origin. With regard to Iceland, the stigmatisation can be considered doubled when combining the description of the North with the negative image of islands. Even if none of the old sources considered in this article explicitly makes

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this connection, such a subconscious association could quite easily have influenced ancient and medieval scholars’ perception of Iceland. Medieval Icelandic texts such as the partly historical source Landnámabók “The Book of Settlement”, dating from the early twelfth century though only late thirteenth-century versions have been preserved, do not, however, share these points of view. Landnámabók, one of the most central Icelandic works, identifies Thule right at the beginning with Iceland on the basis of the following criteria: Í aldarfarsbók þeirri, er Beda prestr heilagr gerði, er getit eylands þess er Thile heitir ok á bókum er sagt, at liggi sex dægra sigling í norðr frá Bretlandi; þar sagði hann eigi koma dag á vetr og eigi nótt á sumar, þá er dagr er sem lengstr. Til þess ætla vitrir menn þat haft, at Ísland sé Thile kallat. In his book On Times, the Venerable Priest Bede mentions an island called Thule, said in other books to lie six days’ sailing to the north of Britain. He says there’s neither daylight there in the winter, nor darkness when the day is at its longest in summer. This is why the learned reckon that Thule must really be Iceland […].34

In his remarks, the scribe of Landnámabók keeps a rather objective and prosaic tone and does not conjure up any kind of associations and stigmatisations of Iceland, for example Paradise or Hell. In contrast to most continental sources, the new Icelandic settlers did not seem to consider themselves as living in a remote place. Quite the opposite: Landnámabók provides a rather impressive itinerary with information about various destinations in the northern hemisphere, mostly to and from Iceland: Svá segja vitrir menn, at ór Nóregi frá Staði sé sjau dœgra sigling til Horns á austanverðu Íslandi, en frá Snjófellsnesi fjІgurra dœgra sigling til Hvarfs á Grœnalandi. Af Hernum af Nóregi skal sigla jafnan í vestr til Hvarfs á Grœnlandi […]. Frá Reykjanesi á sunnanverðu Íslandi er þriggja dœgra haf til JІlduhlaups á Írlandi í suðr; en frá Langanesi á nordanverðu Íslandi er fjІgurra dœgra haf til Svalbarða norðr í afsbotn, en dœgrsigling er til óbyggða á Grœnalandi ór Kolbeinsey norðr. According to learned men it takes seven days to sail from Stað in Norway westwards to Horn on the east coast of Iceland, and from Snæfellsnes four days west across the ocean to Greenland by the shortest route. […] From Reykjanes in South Iceland it takes five days to Slyne Head in Ireland, four days from Langanes in North Iceland northwards to Svalbard in the Arctic Sea, and a day north from Kolbeinsey to the wild regions of Greenland.35

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This passage suggests that Iceland is a hub from which almost every place in the North Atlantic is within reach. Thanks to this advantageous position, the Island holds a vital position in the Scandinavian or even European network of communication, travelling and trading. This selfportrayal further indicates that the ocean is in no way deemed an impediment, and consequently that islands are neither considered places of isolation nor of marginality. Indeed, the fact that Iceland is an island is only mentioned when one of the first men to arrive on Iceland finds out about it by sailing along the Icelandic coast: Maðr hét Garðarr Svavarsson […]; hann fór at leita Snælands […]. Garðarr sigldi umhverfis landit og vissi, at þat var eyland. A man called Gardar […] went out in search of Snowland [Iceland] […]. Gardar sailed right round the country and proved it to be an island.36

Interestingly, this insight is of no further importance or consequence, either for Garðarr himself, or for the settlers later on. No other text mentions or even emphasises Iceland’s insular nature. It seems as if it does not matter what form the land has as long as it provides the required basics for starting a new life. While Landnámabók still maintains a neutral tone and style in its presentation of Iceland, the Íslendingasögur provide an overly positive depiction of the island and its living conditions. The first three explorers of Iceland are full of praise for the newly-found land, which is repeatedly expressed with the almost formulaic sentence: Þeir lofuðu mjІk landit “They praised the land a lot”.37 Despite promising fishing and hunting prospects, a man called Þórólfr exaggerates considerably when he states that in Iceland: Þórólfr kvað drjúpa smjІr af hverju strái á landinu, því er þeir hІfðu fundit; því var hann kallaðr Þórólfr smjІr “butter was dripping from every blade of grass. That’s why people called him Thorolf Butter.”38 The image of an utterly lavish fertile land is strongly reminiscent both of the Biblical visions of Paradise and the land flowing with milk and honey.39 Although it can be assumed that learned Icelanders were familiar with the continental European perception of islands and the tradition of Thule, they put forward their own idiosyncratic vision of their home and consequently of insularity.40 It can be observed that the Scandinavians, and especially the Icelanders, did not engage extensively in the discourse about Iceland’s marginality,41 which was mostly conducted by ancient as well as medieval scholars and clerics. As will be shown in the next section,

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Icelandic sources focus on more existential aspects than the question of the marginality of Iceland and islands. In particular, emphasis is placed on whether Iceland provides a solid livelihood for the Norwegian migrants and hence the start of a new society.

Islands in the Íslendingasögur The three selected Íslendingasögur42 to be analysed are classics of Icelandic saga literature: Egils saga Skalla-Grímssonar “Egil’s saga”,43 Eyrbyggja saga “The Saga of the People of Eyri” and Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar “The Saga of Grettir the Strong”. 44 For the present purpose, these sagas have been analysed for incidents which either take place on or are closely connected to islands. In order to structure the resulting data, the examples are divided into four categories, which overlap to some extent: 1) islands as homesteads, pasture, and other parts of properties; 2) islands as parts of social networks; 3) islands as places for hólmganga “fights, duels on an island”; 4) islands as exile and hiding places. In the following sections, each category is briefly discussed, in order to give an impression of how they mention and deal with islands. Finally, an attempt will be made to draw an overarching conclusion regarding the Old Norse concept of insularity as presented in the Íslendingasögur.45

Homesteads, pasture and other parts of properties The sagas repeatedly mention instances where influential figures or clans have established their seat of residence on islands and are therefore strongly connected to these places. Why these locations were chosen in the first place is never explained in the sagas. One could speculate that islands were chosen because they were quite easy to control. For this Chapter, however, only the fact that houses and estates were built on islands is important. One of the most famous and prominent islanders, and later Icelanders, is Þórólfr Mostrarskegg in Eyrbyggja saga. In Norway, he lives on the Island of Moster and is highly respected by the community: [Björn Ketilsson] kom í ey þá, er Mostr heitir ok liggr fyrir SunnhІrðalandi, ok þar tók við honum sá maðr, er Hrólfr hét […] Hrólfr var hІfðingi mikill ok inn mesti rausnarmaðr. […] Hann var gІfgastr maðr í eyjunni.

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Chapter Five [Bj۠rn Ketilsson] sailed until he came to the Island of Moster, which lies off southern Hordaland, and there he was received by a man named Hrolf, the son of Ornolf Fish-Driver. – Hrolf was a prominent chieftain and a man of great largesse. […] He was the most eminent man on the Island.46

Egils saga and Grettis saga also mention properties of high-ranking personalities on islands. The Norwegian king Eiríkr owns a large property on the Island of Atløy. Svá bar til ferð þeira, at þeir kómu aptan dags til Atleyjar ok lІgðu þar at landi, en þar var í eyjunni skammt upp bú mikit, er átti Eiríkr konungr. On their journey they arrived in Atløy Island in the evening and moored 47 there. Just up from the shore was a large farm which King Eirik owned.

In Grettis saga, it is the local landowner who has his farm on Haramsøya: Þar var ein ey skammt frá þeim til meginlands, er heitir Háramarsey. Þar var byggð mikil í eyjunni. Þar var ok lends manns ból. There was an island called Haramsøya a short way off towards the mainland, where a lot of people lived, and the local landowner had his home.48

In addition to having homesteads on islands, Grettis saga also mentions the use of islands as naturally “fenced off” meadows: the farmer Þorgils Arason owns the Óláfseyjar where he keeps a good bull throughout the grazing period: Þat segja menn, at Þorgils bóndi átti eyjar þær, sem Óláfseyjar heita; þær liggja út á firðinum, hálfa aðra viku undan Reykjanesi. Þar átti Þorgils bóndi uxa góðan […]. People say that Thorgils owned the islands called Olafseyjar, about six miles out into the fjord off Reykjanes. [There] Thorgils owned a fine ox […].49

Role in social networks It is first and foremost Egils saga which demonstrates that islands are by no means cut off from the mainland, but play a vital and essential role in the Scandinavian social network. The scene emphasises the function of

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islands as small-scale hubs or catalysts of circulation.50 Back in Norway for the second time, Egill gets his ship ready and sails to the Island of Vitar, which is allegedly an ideal place to catch up with the latest news despite it being off the beaten track: þá lagði Egill skipi sínu til hafs ok hélt í útver þat, er Vitar heita, út frá Alda; þat er komit af þjóðleið; þar váru fiskimenn, ok var þar gott at spyrja tíðendi; þá spurði hann [Egill], at konungr hafði gІrt hann útlaga. Egill set sail for the fishing camp called Vitar which lies off Alden, well away from travel routes. There were fishermen there who were good sources for the latest news. [Then] he heard that the king had declared him an outlaw […].51

Earlier in the saga, the social network connecting islands is demonstrated in the context of Þórólfr Kveld-Úlfsson’s death. Þórólfr and his men have fought a battle against the Norwegian king north of Trondheim. Having killed Þórólfr, the king sails away from the battlefield and is surprised to meet numerous rowing boats with men in the fjord between the islands. The saga narrator explains that all these men had been summoned for assistance by Þórólfr before the battle began. Apparently the call for help had spread quickly among the islands and the islanders readily headed towards the battlefield, but too late: En er á leið daginn, þá fundu þeir konungr róðrarskip mІrg í hverju eyjarsundi, ok hafði lið þat ætlat til fundar við Þórólf, því at njósnir hans hІfðu verit allt suðr í Naumudal ok víða um eyjar. HІfðu þeir orðit vísir, at þeir Hallvarðr brœðr váru komnir sunnan með lið mikit ok ætluðu at Þórólfi. In the course of the day the king and his men noticed many rowing boats in all the sounds between the islands. Their crews were on their way to see Thorolf, because he had planted spies all the way to Naumdal and in many islands […].52

Fights, raids and duels (hólmganga) As the previous category shows, daily life on Scandinavian saga islands is not always as peaceful and idyllic as island life is often imagined to be. Often battles and duels are fought on islands, and in addition to such activities, Vikings also go raiding various bigger and smaller islands all over Northern Europe. In such episodes, it is often unclear, however,

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whether islands were consciously chosen for their isolation. Especially in the case of raids, it is doubtful whether the islands mentioned have been targeted because they are islands or whether other criteria, which are not revealed to the reader, made the raiders decide to loot there. Only the hólmganga “the duel” (from hólmr “small island”) was originally exclusively set on small islands and has thus acquired its name. On the basis of the texts, it can be assumed, however, that the setting on the island lost its importance over time, so that the term hólmganga53 lost part of its meaning and simply referred to “duel”, irrespective of the setting. Þeir herjuðu um Suðreyjar […] They [۟nundr Ófeigsson and his men] went raiding in the Hebrides […].54 […] síðan fór hann með liði sínu suðr fyrir Skotland ok herjaði þar; þaðan fór hann suðr til Englands ok herjaði þar. Then he [Arinbj۠rn] travelled south with all his men to Scotland and raided there, and from there he continued southwards to England and raided there as well. 55 Hann [Ljótr] kom hér ok bað dóttur minnar, en vér svІruðum skjótt ok synjuðum honum ráðsins; síðan skoraði hann til hólmgöngu á Friðgeir, son minn, ok skal á morgin koma til hólmsins í ey þá, er VІrl heitir. He [the berserk Ljótr] came here and asked for my daughter’s hand in marriage, but we turned him down on the spot. So he challenged my son Friðgeir to a duel. He’ll be coming to fight him at Valdero Island tomorrow.56

Exile and hiding places At times animosities between various parties in the sagas mean that a group of people or an individual has to flee and hide or even seek exile in a different place. The event many Íslendingasögur begin with is the exodus out of Norway because of King Haraldr hárfagri’s actions, the most important migration or exile in Old Norse literature and history. Members of the Norwegian upper class refused to submit to Haraldr hárfagri and insisted on their independence and local authority. They therefore decided to leave Norway and find a new home in Northern Europe, not infrequently on islands of various sizes:

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En af þessi áþján flýðu margir menn af landi á brott, ok byggðust þá margar auðnir víða, bæði austr í Jamtaland ok Helsingjaland ok VesturlІnd, Suðreyjar, Dyflinnar skíði, Írland, Norðmandí á Vallandi, Katanes á Skotlandi, Orkneyjar ok Hjaltland, Færeyjar. Many people fled the country [Norway] to escape this [Haraldr hárfagri’s] tyranny and settled various uninhabited parts of many places, to the east in Jamtland and Halsingland, and to the west in the Hebrides, the shire of Dublin, Ireland, Normandy in France, Caithness in Scotland, the Orkney Islands and Shetland Isles, and the Faroe Islands. 57

Much later in Egils saga, the hero Egill has to flee and hide from his life-long enemy, the Norwegian king Eiríkr blóðøx. Egill swims to the island of Sauðey and hides successfully in the shrubs. King Eiríkr does not find him because he has his men mistakenly search for Egill on the neighbouring island of Atløy: Þá hljóp hann á sund ok létti eigi fyrr en hann kom til eyjarinnar; hon hét Sauðey ok er ekki mikil ey ok hrísótt. […]. Eiríkr konungr lét rannsaka eyna, þegar ljóst var; þat var seint, er eyin var mikil, og fannst Egil eigi. Then he [Egill] leapt into the sea and swam without stopping until he reached the island, which is called Sauðey, a small island covered with low shrub. […] King Eirik had Atløy combed when it was light. This was a lengthy task because it was a large island, and Egil was nowhere to be found.58

Besides violent incidents, the sagas also tell of rather humorous episodes, for example, when the stay on an island is involuntary and eventually very expensive. In chapter 29 of Eyrbyggja saga, some of Earl Sigurðr Hl۠dvésson’s men are shipwrecked on a small and uninhabited island, having collected the taxes on the Island of Man. Fortunately, the Icelandic merchant Þóroddr, who is on his way back from Dublin to Iceland, sails past and sells them his small boat … for an extortionate sum, i.e. most of the taxes the men had previously collected. And this is why Þóroddr is nicknamed “the Tribute-Trader”: “[…] ok er þeir hІfðu siglt um stund, gekk veðr til landsuðrs ok austrs ok gerði storm mikinn, ok bar þá norðr um Írland, ok brutu þar skipit í spán við ey eina óbyggða; ok er þeir váru þar at komnir, bar þar at þeim Þórodd Íslending, er hann sigldi úr Dyflinni. Jarlsmenn kІlluðu á kaupmenn til hjálpar sér. Þóroddr lét skjóta báti ok gekk þar á sjálfr. […] Ok svá kom, at hann seldi þeim bátinn frá hafskipinu ok tók þar við mikinn hlut af skattinum. […] Hann var síðan kallaðr Þóroddr skattkaupandi.

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Chapter Five After they had been at sea awhile the wind swung round to the south-east, and then to the east, and a storm blew up and drove them north of Ireland, where their ship broke up on the shore of an uninhabited island. It was there that Thorodd found them on his voyage back from Dublin. The earl’s men called out to the traders for help, and Thorodd had a boat launched and went in it himself. […] Finally Thorodd sold them the boat from the ship for a large portion of the tax they had collected. […] From that time on he was known as Thorodd the Tribute-Trader.59

Discussion The examples quoted from the three sagas give the strong impression that islands constitute a normal part of Scandinavian life and daily experience; saga people settle down and live on islands, as well as fighting or seeking refuge on them, so islands are an integral part of social life and are neither cut off from communication nor from trade. This positive portrayal of Iceland and islands goes hand in hand with the fact that all islands mentioned are named and clearly located, providing points of reference in relation to the mainland. These saga islands do not fall prey to marginality, stagnation and alienation, except perhaps the hólmganga in its original form, being carried out on an islet. In this case, it can be argued that the island which, broadly speaking, is coterminous with the arena, is liminal. Firstly, the liminality is shown in the temporality of the event, secondly, in the island serving as a clearly demarcated space of a different nature from the usual, and thirdly in the fact that the duel decides an unsettled issue, thus bringing about a crucial change for the parties involved and so reestablishing social equilibrium. In addition to the activities taking place on saga islands, it should also be considered that these rather ordinary events can only happen that way because the sea is in no way deemed an impediment. Indeed, the sea and the ships are the connecting elements between the innumerable islands and the mainland(s) in the North Atlantic. It can therefore be stated that, whatever is possible on the mainland, is also possible on islands. As Glauser and Kiening observe, the island is a miniature rendition of the world.60 Although the sagas do not paint as paradisiacal a picture as Landnámabók, they still keep a neutral to positive attitude towards islands and thus do not correspond with the learned, medieval teachings either of the North being evil, or of the islands’ potentially negative stigmatisation. Returning to John Gillis’ list of binary opposites of island features,61 it can be seen that the Íslendingasögur islands are portrayed in the left-hand column with positive characteristics, while the ancient and medieval

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Christian teachings show a strong affiliation with the right-hand column of negative points: POSITIVE wholeness and safety recovery Paradise point of welcome continuity connection origin place of desire feeling free connectedness to world mastery

NEGATIVE fragmentation and vulnerability loss Hell quarantine/exile separation isolation extinction place of fear feeling trapped solitude powerlessness

This insight that islands are subjected to contrasting perceptions within one single period of time strongly emphasises “that the idea of the island is also a construction, variable by time as well as by culture.”62 Moreover, this flexibility of the concept further implies that the island’s attributes of marginality, definiteness and interior homogeneity are not naturally given to the island but are attributed to it in the course of a symbolical act.63 Accordingly, liminality is also a characteristic feature which is assigned by a cultural and social context and hence is not genuinely inherent in the island itself. In his article on holy islands, Eldar Heide rightly observes that an island is not per se holy, special or liminal in any way.64 Rather, in order to be a special place, holy or liminal, an island needs to be different from other islands: I am not claiming that being beyond water is the only source for liminality nor that it is sufficient. Differentness is the quality that it takes to make a holy place. Being beyond water is not the only one way of being different and in a landscape with many islands it is not enough. Then, being different from other islands is required.65

With regard to the islands in the Íslendingasögur and inspired by Heide, it can be stated that the narratives do not intend to make the islands special in any way, but portray them as ordinary places, where daily life takes place in the same way as on the mainland.

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Conclusion Considering that there are about one hundred and fifty thousand islands off Norway’s coast alone, mainland Scandinavians as well as Icelandic settlers had no reason to either stigmatise islands negatively or make them special or even liminal places. This insular experience is certainly mirrored in the three Íslendingasögur discussed here, whose islands are clearly set in the context of the Nordic worldview. The saga islands touched on in this Chapter do not share the negative stigmatisation seen in medieval Western sources and the mappae mundi tradition. The islands in Egils saga, Eyrbyggja saga and Grettis saga neither float in the sea, nor do they change their geographical position, nor have a fluctuating form.66 Rather, they are mostly named, are clearly located, maintain connections to the mainland and so are embedded in ordinary daily life. They serve as places for fights and duels; they are chosen for settlements as well as for keeping cattle on; they are regarded as ideal for hiding or exile; and they are welcome places to share news and gossip. This does not mean, however, that the Íslendingasögur do not feature liminal or supernatural incidents; they are simply not necessarily located on islands.

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Figures Figure 5.1: The Cottonian Map (before 1050 AD) with Northern Europe in the lower left quarter (Konrad Miller, 1895, out of copyright).

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Detail from the Cottonian C Map. Note “Scrideffinnas” at the lo ower tip of Figure 5.2: D the island. Thhe peninsula atttached to “Sleeswic” is labellled “Neronorweegia”. The small islands north of Britaiin are the Orkn ney Islands (Kon onrad Miller, 18 895, out of copyright).

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Figure 5.3: T The map from St. John’s Co ollege, Oxford (around 1100 AD). The island to the very left is Thhile. Interesting gly, Europe connsists mostly of o “Italia”, “Roma” and the Balkans, but b no area is labelled “Scanndinavia” or “G Germania” (Konrad Miller, 1895, out off copyright).

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Detail from the St. S John’s Colleege Map. Whilee the island “Brritannia” is Figure 5.4: D still placed w within the orb, “Hibernia” (Ireeland) and the island Thule (Thile) ( are clearly pusheed over the eddge and thus seeem to be exppelled from thee Christian ecumene. Onn the basis of the t position of these three isllands, Von den n Brincken suspects that they were renddered as if the map m is actually oriented North67 (Konrad Miller, 1895, out of copyrighht).

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Figure 5.5: T The Henry of Mainz or Corrpus Map (latee twelfth/early thirteenth century). Onn this map, Northern Europee in the loweer left quarter is hardly recognisable. Scandinavia consists c of a clu uster of peninsuulas and island ds (Konrad Miller, 1895, out of copyrighht).

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Detail of Northeern Europe from m the Henry of Mainz Map. Remarkable R Figure 5.6: D are the bridgee-like connections between Siinus Germanicuus and Island, as well as between Noreeya and Ganzmir. In addition to t the problemaatic outlines of the t islands and peninsulaas, their indiviidual labels do o not offer mucch support and d so leave much room foor interpretationn68 (Konrad Miller, 1895, out oof copyright).

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Notes 1. Christian Moser, “Archipele der Erinnerung: Die Insel als Topos der Kulturisation,” in Topographien der Literatur, ed. Hartmut Böhme (Stuttgart: Verlag J. B. Metzler, 2005), 413. 2. Ibid., 410. 3. John Gillis, Islands of the Mind. How the Human Imagination Created the Atlantic World (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2004), 5. 4. Throughout this Chapter, only the Old Norse spelling of proper names has been used. Spellings in quotations from English translations may vary. 5. Oxford Dictionaries, 2014. Available on line at http://www.oxforddictionaries.com/definition/english/island. 6. Moser, “Archipele der Erinnerung,” 409. 7. In a different way to Moser, Eldar Heide differentiates between the vertical and the horizontal definition of islands in the Middle Ages, see Eldar Heide, “Holy Islands and the Otherworld: Places beyond Water,” in Isolated Islands in Medieval Nature, Culture and Mind, eds. Torstein Jørgensen, and Gerhard Jaritz, CEU Medievalia 14 (Budapest: Central European University Press, 2011), 58. While the conventional vertical definition, as rendered by the Oxford Dictionary, is heavily influenced by bird’s eye views and map depictions, the horizontal definition describes any land visible across or reached after having crossed the water (for example a lake) an island (ibid., 58, 59). Nevertheless, Heide states: “I am trying to show that the question is not island or mainland. The question is: On the other side of the water or not.” (Ibid., 64). 8. Moser, “Archipele der Erinnerung,” 409; author’s translation. 9. Ibid., 412-413; author’s translation. 10. Gillis, Islands of the Mind, 4. 11. It was in 1909 that the concept of liminality was first introduced by the French ethnographer and folklorist Arnold van Gennep (1873-1957) in his famous work Les rites de passage, see Arnold van Gennep, The Rites of Passage, trans. Monika B. Vizedom, and Gabrielle L. Caffee (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1960). Van Gennep observed that situations of individual or collective crises and breaches are mostly accompanied by and dealt with in rituals. He classified such processes as rites of passage and ascribed to them the threefold structure of separation, transition and re-incorporation. The concept of liminality refers to and characterises the transitional middle phase of these rites. During this phase, the ritual subject undergoes crucial changes which eventually allow him/her to assume the new social position or office. A type of rite of passage is the initiation ritual. In many cultures, boys, for example, assume the social position of men or warriors by passing through a transforming initiation rite. During the liminal phase the boys are equipped with all they need to know in order to fulfil their future role successfully. 12. While structure stands for normal daily life, which involves heterogeneity and hierarchical features such as names, titles, ranks etc., order is suspended during the ensuing period of anti-structure. As the rules of normal daily life do not apply anymore during this time, room is made for (ritually) subjecting an individual or

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group to fundamental/crucial changes which prepare the ritual subject for the new social position or office to be assumed in the structural phase to follow. 13. Victor W. Turner, "Betwixt and Between: The Liminal Period in Rites de Passage," The Forest of Symbols. Aspects of Ndembu Ritual, 93-111 (Ithaca, London: Cornell UP, 1967), 99. 14. Ibid., 98. 15. Gillis, Islands of the Mind, 3. 16. Mappae mundi is a hyponym and comprises four major types of maps: the zonal or Macrobian map; the tripartite or orbis terrae (OT) map; the quadripartite or Beatus map; the complex or great world map. 17. In this context John Gillis quotes John Kirtland Wright who has suggested "geosophy" – a combination of geography and philosophy – as the key to unlock the medieval maps (Gillis, Islands of the Mind, 17). 18. Anna-Dorothee von den Brincken, "Mappae Mundi and Scandinavia,". Die Enden der Erde und der vierte Kontinent auf mittelalterlichen Weltkarten. Monumenta Germanicae Historica, Schriften 36. (Hannover: Hahn’sche Buchhandlung, 1992), 171; author’s translation. 19. Von den Brincken, Fines Terrae, 168. 20. Most prominent are the feared tribes of Gog and Magog who are associated with the North (Von den Brincken, Fines Terrae, 168). 21. For a detailed discussion of Scandinavia and the mappae mundi, cf. for example Leonid S. Chekin, "Mappae Mundi and Scandinavia," in Scandinavian Studies 65(4) (fall) (1993), 487-520; Von den Brincken, Fines Terrae. 22. All depictions are taken from Konrad Miller, “Die kleineren Weltkarten,” in Mappae Mundi. Die ältesten Weltkarten III, (Stuttgart: Jos. Roth’sche Verlagshandlung, 1895), 33, 119, 162. 23. Chekin, “Mappae Mundi and Scandinavia,” 487: “It is commonly assumed that in the Middle Ages the ancient tradition of describing northern Europe as a system of islands had the foremost authority.” 24. Von den Brincken, Fines Terrae, 61. 25. Andreas Kleineberg, Christian Marx, Eberhard Knobloch, and Dieter Lelgemann, Germania und die Insel Thule: die Entschlüsselung von Ptolemaios’ “Atlas der Oikumene” (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2011), 104. 26. Adam of Bremen follows in most parts of his work the traditional insular view on Scandinavia, but at the same time he also hints at the possibility of mainland Scandinavia being a peninsula. It is only Saxo Grammaticus (c. 1150-1220 AD) who first clearly states that Norway and Sweden are connected to the continent via a narrow neck (Chekin, “Mappae Mundi and Scandinavia,” 493). 27. Adam of Bremen, History of the Archbishops of Hamburg-Bremen, translated and with an introduction and notes by Francis J. Tschan (New York: Columbia University Press, 1959), 216; Adam of Bremen, Beskrivelse af øerne i Norden, translated by A. A. Lund (Højbjerg: Wormianum, 1978), 59 (§36). 28. Adam of Bremen, 1959, 217; Adam of Bremen, 1978, 59 (§36). 29. Both Latin quotations from: Adam of Bremen: Adam of Bremen, 1978, 59 (§36), and Adam of Bremen 1959, 217.

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30. Torstein Jørgensen, “The Land of the Norwegians is the Last in the World”: A Mid-Eleventh-Century Description of the Nordic Countries from the Pen of Adam of Bremen,” in The Edges of the Medieval World, eds Gerhard Jaritz, and Juhan Kreem, CEU Medievalia 11 (= The Muhu Proceedings 1) (Budapest: Central European University Press, 2009), 54. 31. Peter Fisher in Saxo Grammaticus. The History of the Danes. Volumes I and II, ed. Hilda Ellis Davidson, trans. Peter Fisher (Cambridge (UK): D. S. Brewer, and Totowa (NJ): Rowman and Littlefield, 1979-1980), Volume II, 20. 32. Saxo Grammaticus, Volume I, Preface, § 5. 33. The King’s Mirror. Speculum Regale – Konungs Skuggsjá, trans. Laurence M. Larson, The Library of Scandinavian Literature 15. (New York: Twayne Publishers/The American-Scandinavian Foundation, 1917), 131; Magnus Lárusson, Konungs skuggsjá. 1955, 38. During the Middle Ages, the continent associated the entrance to Hell with the Icelandic volcano Hekla. This connection is most probably based on fact that Hekla was very active and erupted several times during the twelfth and thirteenth century. 34. The Book of Settlement. Landnámabók, trans. Herman Pálsson and Paul Edwards, University of Manitoba Icelandic Studies 1 (University of Manitoba Press, 1972), 15; Landnámabók, Íslenzk fornrit (=ÍF) 1:1, Chapter 1. 35. Pálsson and Edwards, The Book of Settlement. Landnámabók, 16; Landnámabók, Íslensk fornrit 1:1, Chapter 2. 36. Ibid., 17; Landnámabók, ÍF 1:1, Chapter 4. “Snowland” (Snæland) is the name the viking Naddoddrr gave Iceland when he was there and it was snowing heavily. It was after Garðar Svavarson that Flóki Vilgerðarson came to Iceland and named it Ísland. 37. Íslendingabók, Landnámabók, ed. Jakob Benediktsson. ÍF I. (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1968), 34, 36, 38. 38. Pálsson and Edwards, The Book of Settlement. Landnámabók, 18; Landnámabók, ÍF 1:1, Chapter 5. 39. Cf. for example the Old Testament, Book of Numbers 13, 27. 40. On these two worldviews coexisting in medieval (scholarly) Scandinavia, Sverrir Jakobsson, Við og veröldin (Reykjavík: Háskólaútgáfan, 2009), 919 states: “As a result of this learned consensus, the dominant world-view among the Icelandic literary elite was allocentric. The people who had a stake in Icelandic textual culture had a deep sense of belonging to a bigger unity, but at the same time, they were aware of their marginal situation within this unity.” This allocentrism consists on the one hand of the medieval Christian or catholic view and the Nordic worldview on the other hand: while the former had its sacred and secular centres in Jerusalem, Rome and Constantinople and pushed Scandinavia to the edges of the orb, the latter worldview depicts Scandinavia as a well-connected region which is anything but the home of monsters and evil tribes. 41. Sverrir Jakobsson points out, however, that the “second Guðmundar saga” (a Bishops’ saga) and “the writers of saints’ Lives” describe Iceland’s marginality and hence take part in the continental discourse and worldview (Jakobsson, Við og veröldin, 919).

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42. The Íslendingasögur (“Icelandic Family Sagas”) are a subgenre of the Old Norse literary corpus and consist of forty narratives. The Íslendingasögur focus on events which have allegedly happened shortly before and after the Icelandic settlement (i.e. c.870-1050 A.D.), and depict the first settlers and their descendants. The narratives of the Íslendingasögur are to a large extent in a realist style, which has for a long time made scholars treat them as historically reliable sources. Nowadays, they are considered fictional texts although based on tradition and regarded as history. Most Íslendingasögur were presumably written down between 1250 and 1400, however, the dating of single sagas and manuscripts is still the subject of lively discussions. The major extant manuscripts of the three chosen sagas are generally dated to the fourteenth up to the late seventeenth century. 43. There is one incident in Egils saga which is not addressed in the present analysis. In chapter 58, Egill sails to an island and erects there a níðstöng “pole of insult” against his archenemy, King Eiríkr blóðøx. The decision to perform this act of insult on an island again can have practical reasons, i.e., on an island with many people sailing by, it is likely that the níðstöng will be noticed by a wider audience and thus attract considerable attention. In addition, Egill might intentionally have chosen an island to do this kind of magic, thus making the island a liminal place. After all, Egill hopes to drive King Eiríkr out of Norway with this pole of insult. 44. In the discussion of Grettis saga, this article deliberately leaves out the Icelandic island of Drangey, where Grettir spends the last period of his outlawry until his death. Drangey is a special island, as it is a miniature copy of Iceland: an island at the northern periphery, habitable, with sheep grazing on it and wood being washed ashore. See Ástráður Eysteinsson, "Traveling Island: Grettir the Strong and his Search for a Place," in Beyond the Floating Islands, eds. Stephanos Stephanides, and Susan Bassnett (Bologna: Cotepra, 2002), 90-96. 45. For a discussion of islands in Old Norse genres other than Íslendingasögur, cf. for example Kristel Zilmer, “The Power and Purposes of an Insular Setting – On some Motifs in Old-Norse Literature,” in Isolated Islands in Medieval Nature, Culture and Mind, eds. Torstein Jørgensen, and Gerhard Jaritz (Budapest: Central European University Press, 2011), 23-35. 46. Eyrbyggja saga, chapters 2 and 3, translation from The Saga of the People of Eyri, trans. Judy Quinn. The Complete Sagas of Icelanders, ed. Viðar Hreinsson. Volume 5 (Reykjavík: Leifur Eiríksson, 1997), 132; ÍF 4 (1935), 5-6 chapter 2 […] ÍF 4 (1935), 6 (chapter 3). Þórolfr Mostrarskegg’s actual name is Hrólfr only. Due to his affectionate friendship and admiration for the god Þór, he is called Þór(hr)ólfr. 47. Egils saga, chapter 43, translation from Egil’s Saga, trans. Bernard Scudder, The Complete Sagas of Icelanders, ed. Viðar Hreinsson. Volume 1. (Reykjavík: Leifur Eiríksson, 1997), 80; ÍF 2 (1933), 106. 48. Grettis saga, chapter 17, translation from The Saga of Grettir the Strong, trans. Bernard Scudder, The Complete Sagas of Icelanders, ed. Viðar Hreinsson. Volume 2 (Reykjavík: Leifur Eiríksson, 1997), 74; ÍF 7 (1936), 159-160. 49. Grettis saga, chapter 50, trans. Scudder, The Saga of Grettir the Strong, 126; ÍF 7 (1936), 159-160.

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50. Moser, “Archipele der Erinnerung,” 429; author’s translation. In the original: "Insel als Katalysator der Zirkulation". 51. Scudder, Egil’s Saga, 110; ÍF 2 (1933), 164-165. 52. Scudder, Egil’s Saga, 56; ÍF 2 (1933), 54. 53. This also applies to related phrases, such as at bjóða e-m hólmgöngu – “to challenge someone to a duel”. 54. Scudder, The Saga of Grettir the Strong 50; ÍF 7 (1936), 3. 55. Scudder, Egil’s Saga, 116; ÍF 2 (1933), 176. 56. Ibid., 128; ÍF 2 (1933), 201-202. 57. Scudder, Egil’s Saga, 36; ÍF 2 (1933), 12 (chapter 4). 58. Ibid., 83; ÍF 2 (1933), 111 and 112. 59. Quinn, The Saga of the People of Eyri, 165; ÍF 4 (1935), 76 and 77. 60. Jürg Glauser, and Christian Kiening, eds. Text – Bild – Karte. Kartographien der Vormoderne (Freiburg i.Br. etc.: Rombach Verlag KG, 2007), 13. 61. Gillis, Islands of the Mind, 3. 62. Moser, “Archipele der Erinnerung,” 412. 63. Sentence based on the following quote by Moser, “Archipele der Erinnerung,” 412: “Denn die Attribute der Marginalität, Begrenztheit und inneren Homogeneität sind gerade nicht von Natur aus zu eigen, sie werden ihr [d.h. der Insel] vielmehr durch einen bestimmten Diskurs zugewiesen, sind also das Produkt einer symbolischen Praxis.” 64. In his article, Heide, “Holy Islands and the Otherworld”, considers any land that can be reached by crossing water an island. Islands are potentially but not necessarily liminal, and in case of being liminal they present a gateway to the Otherworld. Heide backs this claim up with examples from the Old Norse literary corpus. 65. Heide, “Holy Islands and the Otherworld,” 79, italics in the original. 66. Moser, “Archipele der Erinnerung,” 412, comments on the notion of the island prevalent from Antiquity up to the early modern period: “From Antiquity up to the early modern period, the notion is widespread that the island is a fluctuating entity, without stable form and without fixed location.” Author’s translation. 67. See Figure 5.4. Von den Brincken, Fines Terrae, 67. 68. See Figure 5.6. Eduard Moritz interprets Sinus Germanicus as Jutland, and Noreya as Scandinavia mainland. Anna-Dorothee van den Brincken, however, argues that Sinus Germanicus is Sweden and Noreya is Jutland. Only Ganzmir has by many scholars been regarded as a corrupted form of the name Scandza, i.e., Scandinavia. See Chekin, “Mappae Mundi and Scandinavia,” 501.

CHAPTER SIX THE ROLES OF ISLANDS IN ÁNS SAGA BOGSVEIGIS MARTINA CEOLIN

References to islands are innumerable in Old Norse-Icelandic literature, especially in sagas including descriptions of travel and communication between Iceland, Scandinavia and the British Isles. In these texts, island representation has a pragmatic aspect, for example when islands consist of sites along the characters’ travel routes. At times, the sources also reveal the symbolic potential of the island setting, when, for example, islands host events that are out of the ordinary. Occasionally, the metaphoric quality of islands is also exploited, which is often connected to notions and perceptions of insularity as they are communicated in the texts. For example, Iceland itself is described as both a country and an island in the sources, which allows for interesting parallels to be drawn. The various roles islands play in the sagas will be explored by examining Áns saga bogsveigis, a late medieval fornaldarsaga which shares some characteristics with the genre of the Íslendingasögur. The ways in which islands function in this saga cover the practical and also the more symbolic aspects of island communication, including the figurative. An analysis of the most significant island of the story, Hrafnista, will exemplify this, while leading to its interpretation as an allegory of Icelandic sentiments, contemporary to the people involved in the composition and transmission of the saga, vis-à-vis Norwegian and Danish rulership.

Introducing Áns saga bogsveigis Áns saga bogsveigis1 is a late medieval fornaldarsaga relating the deeds of Án bogsveigir “bow-bender” Bjarnarson from Hrafnista, modern Ramsta, an island off the coast of central Norway. The plot develops

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around the conflict running between Án and King Ingjaldr of Naumudalr, modern Namdalen, in the period just preceding the unification of Norway by Haraldr hárfagri (872 AD), and thus before the settlement of Iceland. The connection of Án with Hrafnista has led scholars to list Áns saga among the Hrafnistumannasögur “Sagas of the men from Hrafnista”, a group of fornaldarsögur concerning the descendants of Hallbjörn hálftröll “Half-Troll” from Hrafnista, namely Ketils saga hængs, Gríms saga loðinkinna and Örvar Odds saga.2 In Áns saga, Án figures as a greatgreat-grandson of Hallbjörn, on his mother’s side.3 However, Án’s connection with the renowned patriarch is at odds with the genealogies presented in other sources such as Landnámabók and Gríms saga loðinkinna. For this reason the inclusion of Áns saga among the Hrafnistumannasögur has been questioned, while textual comparisons seem to confirm that the saga has little in common with the three Hrafnistumannasögur.4 Moreover, it is interesting to note that Áns saga is preserved along with the three Hrafnistumannasögur in some codexes, but is excluded from the Hrafnista-cycle in others.5 Nevertheless, these sagas share some characteristics, especially the fact that their heroes “are leaders of farmers and not of royal stock”, who also “opposed royal power and prevailed”.6 Thus they also have points in common with the Íslendingasögur. The oldest extant codex preserving Áns saga is AM 343a 4to is a vellum produced at the Möðruvellir estate in Eyjafjörður in the North of Iceland during the third quarter of the fifteenth century. Besides containing the Hrafnistumannasögur, it preserves five other fornaldarsögur, five riddarasögur and one moral fable.7 Hughes8 argues that Áns saga itself may be dated to the third quarter of the fourteenth century, thus one century before AM 343a 4to was produced, while supposing that the story of Án may be even older.9 Áns saga exists in forty-six paper manuscripts of later date as well. In addition, Hughes10 informs us that Carl Christian Rafn published the “only serviceable” edition of the saga in 1829-30, basing his text on AM 343a 4to. Rafn’s text was then modernized and reedited by Guðni Jónsson in 1954, and it is Guðni Jónsson’s edition that the present Chapter has used. Two other prose versions of the story of Án exist, and both were based on manuscripts now lost. One is found in Erik Julius Björner’s 1737 Nordiska Kämpa Dater, where a Latin translation of the text is accompanied by a Swedish translation and an Icelandic prose text.11 The other version is preserved in four paper manuscripts from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.12 Both versions were based on “metrical romances” composed around the story of Án, that is Áns rímur bogsveigis, which survive in three vellum manuscripts and five paper ones. The oldest

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and best codex preserving them is Kollsbók, an Icelandic vellum dated to the fourth quarter of the fifteenth century. However, Ólafur Halldórsson13 dates the rímur themselves back to the early fifteenth century, and argues that they were based on an earlier version of the saga that was more complete than the one found in AM 343a 4to.14 The saga and its rímur are similar, especially with regard to the wording, and there is no doubt that either the rímur are based on the saga or vice versa. At the same time, they are also different, especially in the concluding sections, where the rímur are often more detailed on certain issues, such as the viking exploits of Án’s son Þórir háleggur “LongLeg”.15

Overview of Research on Insularity in Old NorseIcelandic Literature The study of the discourse on insularity in Old Norse-Icelandic literature has been limited to date. Some research has been done on the concept of an island as it is described in the sources, especially concerning Iceland itself. However, a biased, continental, modern view has led some scholars to highlight aspects such as the inhospitality of the island or its peripheral position.16 Recent research has been less biased and emphasis has been placed on how the sources allow for more complex reading of islands, comprising both the aspects of separation and outward orientation. Kristel Zilmer,17 for example, has worked along these lines, while investigating the narrative representation and the symbolic meaning of islands in medieval Iceland, along with their cultural-historical significance. Zilmer has specifically focused on the concept of an island as it is communicated in the sources and on the roles islands play, especially in the sagas. Concerning the concept of insularity, Zilmer18 has pointed out that a certain ambiguity is often communicated when considering, and thus experiencing, a particular territory as an island or a mainland. The presence of the word eyland “island-land” testifies to this. Often, it is simply translated as “island”, but its use seems to differ from the use of the most common terms indicating islands, ey and hólmr. For example, Iceland itself is referred to as an eyland in one instance,19 while it is usually described as both a country and an island in the sources. On the whole, there seems to be a general understanding of Iceland as an insular community which also insisted upon outward orientation and interaction.20 At the same time, Iceland also figures as a mainland in these texts, for example when it is related to the smaller islands off its own coast.

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Therefore, the understanding of Iceland seems to vary depending on whether it is compared to a larger neighbour or to the second level of insular spaces within it. The changing perspectives suggest that the concept of an island should remain somewhat relative when analyzing these sources,21 which is important in relation to the final consideration of the Island of Hrafnista as analogous to Iceland. The ambiguity surrounding the understanding of islands in Old NorseIcelandic literature is detectable in the sagas as well, where names and references to islands “do not always reflect a clear topographical or geographical line of thought when distinguishing between islands and mainland territory.”22 Moreover, we find evidence of islands that are not necessarily identified as such, and the insular character is revealed by the narrative. On the other hand, there are saga passages in which islands are regarded as specific units that are separated from other regions, depending on their size, location, importance and administrative status. Zilmer23 has investigated insularity primarily in Íslendingasögur and konungasögur, where the imagery of islands seems to be “very much connected with general depictions of maritime traffic in terms of travel and communication,” both as individual accomplishment and collective experience.24 Zilmer has also analyzed the roles islands play in the sagas, with regard to both the practical and the more symbolic aspects of island communication. For example, islands function as valuable landmarks when they are indicated as part of one’s itinerary and have natural harbours. They can become strategic outposts, while being potential hiding places for fugitives or sites where spies can be placed. Islands often function as sites for remarkable events as well, such as news exchange, banquets, assemblies, feasts or meetings of travellers from different regions.25 Also, battles and duels are often located on islands, while being encompassed by deaths and burials. Experiences such as baptisms and miraculous visions also occur on islands along with changes in identity, while also revealing the symbolic potential of islands. Islands in the sagas can also be the sites where remarkable personalities live, such as important farmers or women with extraordinary qualities, but also paranormal creatures such as giants. In addition, a narratological function of islands can be recognized. The name, if available, position and characteristics of the islands clearly have their own logic and purpose in the narrative. Also, the transformative experiences that islands at times host “may affect a character in a decisive manner and, as such, carry deep significance for the portrayal of his future actions.”26 Indeed, the peculiarity of the insular setting is at times exploited to mediate a specific message.

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These functions will be considered in the analysis of the roles of islands in Áns saga.

The Roles of Islands in Áns saga References to islands are numerous in Áns saga, as the story takes place in Norway and the surrounding coastal area. The depiction of both minor islands and the Island of Hrafnista confirm Zilmer’s view that islands in the sagas are usually represented as “strategic outposts that provide both practical and symbolic access to wider territories.”27 The instances of minor islands in Áns saga are the following:28 Þórir kveðst vilja, at hann [Án] færi, ok halda þeir norðr með konungi ok liggja undir eyjum nokkurum. Þá mælti konungr, at skyldi reisa hafnarmerki. Þórir said that he wanted him [Án] to go and they made their way North with the king and hove to the lee of some islands. Then the king said that they should raise a harbour mark.

In this case, islands function as temporary anchorage, while providing access to the territory of the king’s brothers and leading to the scene of their dramatic encounter. Later in the saga, an island becomes part of the scenario in which the naval battle between Án and King Ingjaldr takes place: [Án] lét búa fjögur skip, ok váru tvau við útey, en önnur tvau í leynivági hjá læginu fyrir bænum. [Án] had four ships made ready, and two were alongside an outlying island and the other two in a secret inlet by the anchorage opposite the farmstead.

Possibly the audience or the readers of the saga were familiar with a place having such characteristics. Thus the battle takes place, but Án eventually escapes the king’s attack and swims away to a remote island, on which he finds shelter and recovers. The same island, or a different one, becomes the reward for his helper living there: [Án] snýr þvers til eyjar einnar, er lá utan fyrir, ok komst þar upp ok var þá allmáttfarinn. Erpr hét sá, er þar bjó, ok kona hans. Ekki var þar fleira manna.

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[Án] turns away [from the king] towards an island that lay out from the coast, and came ashore there and was then totally worn out. Erpur was the name of him who dwelt there and his wife. There were no other people there. Án kvað þeim vel farit hafa ok gaf kerlingu gull, en Erpi eyna ok lét þó meira skyldu verðkaup þeira í tómi. [Án] said they [Erpur and wife] had done well and gave the old woman gold and Erpur the island and made it known that their reward would be more when he had free time.

This last passage is unclear, as it is not certain which island is being referred to and whether Án is able to reward the man with the island because it had been his property. Finally, an island is the place in which a remarkable event occurs, that is Án’s first meeting with his son, after they confront each other in both an archery and a wrestling contest: Ok eitt kveld, sem hann gekk frá smíðinni, sá hann í ey einni eld brenna. Honum kom í hug, at konungr mundi enn vitja eða snöttungar mundu leggjast á fé hans. Hann forvitnast um ok fór til sjóvar einn saman ok tók sér bát ok rær til eyjarinnar. Hann sá þar mann sitja við eldstó, ungligan ok mikinn. And one evening as [Án] went from work he saw a fire burning on one of the islands. It came to his mind that the king might again visit him or robbers had laid hands on his livestock. He became curious about it and went to the sea all alone, took a boat for himself and rowed to the island. He saw a man sitting there by a fireplace, youthful and large.

The symbolic value of this island is clear, as the insular setting intensifies the scene of the first meeting between Án and his son, while allowing us to focus on the uniqueness of the event and only on the two characters. Other islands in Áns saga are equally less tangible. For example, by rejecting courtly life, Án becomes an outsider, thus an island unto himself: Án var fálátr ok ósiðblendinn; var hann lengstum í rúmi sínu, nema þá hann gekk erenda sinna. Án was reserved and unsociable; he stayed in his place much of the time except when he went to relieve himself.

Later in the saga, he is officially labelled an outcast when the king formally declares him an outlaw.29 Yet the outlawry is not taken seriously

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and a predictable turn of events reveals the king to be treacherous while Án becomes a successful leader. The references concerning the Island of Hrafnista are also evidence of the multiple roles islands can play in the sagas. This island appears several times in the narrative and is mainly presented as the prestigious home of the protagonist. Indeed, it is mentioned especially in connection with Án’s family and ancestry and as the place Án belongs to: Björn er bóndi nefndr. Hann bjó í Hrafnistu; hún liggr fyrir Naumudölum. Björn var í inni meiri bóndatölu norðr þar. There is a farmer named Björn. He lived on Hrafnista, which is an island off the coast of Naumudalur. Björn was counted among the more prominent farmers there in the north. Ekki þótti mönnum hann vera líkr um neitt inum fyrrum frændum sínum, sem var Ketill hængr ok aðrir Hrafnistumenn, nema á vöxt. It did not seem to people that Án bore any resemblance at all to the earlier people of Hrafnista except in size. Þann vetr hafði Þórir setit í Hrafnistu ok hafði þá fengit kenningarnafn af sverði sínu. That winter Þórir had remained in Hrafnista, and had by that time been given an appellative on account of his sword. Ek heiti Án ok ættaðr ór Hrafnistu. I am called Án and my lineage is from Hrafnista. Þá var andaðr Björn, faðir þeira, í Hrafnistu, ok varðveitti búit Gautr, mágr þeira, ok Þórdís, systir þeira. By then their father Björn was dead in Hrafnista and Gautur their brotherin-law and Þórdís their sister looked after the farm. En ek mun fara norðr í Hrafnistu til eigna minna. [...]Án kom norðr í eyna, ok átti hann þar dóttur, þá er Mjöll hét. I will go north to Hrafnista to my property. [...] Án went north to the island [Hrafnista] and had there a daughter who was called Mjöll.30

Other functions of the island can be noted, for example it is the site of a remarkable event, the meeting with a dwarf. This meeting has the

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narratological function of driving the story forward, as the dwarf manufactures a bow and arrows for Án on which the development of the narrative depends. The peculiarity of the event is highlighted by the specific insular setting, as the meeting takes place on an island, in a forest clearing, and it lasts for three nights. Later in the text Án refers to this event again: Ek mun skjóta, ok er meiri ván, at ek hæfa, því at þat sagði sá, er mér gaf bogann ok örvar þessar, at ek munda beinskeytr verða, en þat var dvergrinn, sá er ek hitta fyrr í skóginum í Hrafnistu, en menn ætluðu mik horfinn, at vit dvergrinn skiptumst þessu við. I’ll shoot and I’ve more expectation than not of success because he who gave me the bow and these arrows said that I would be an accurate shot. He was the dwarf whom I met earlier in the forest on Hrafnista, although people thought I was lost at the time the dwarf and I made this exchange.

Concerning islands and remarkable creatures, it is interesting to note that, in Björner’s edition of Áns saga, and also in Áns rímur bogsveigis, Án has to deal with troublesome island neighbours: For An til Hrafnisto og bio þar, mikill flagda gangur giordist i eyum þeim sem voru nalægt, enn honum bloskrade þad litt og þegar þau troll villdu vid An glettast, vard þeirra hlutur æ mine. Án went to Hrafnista and dwelt there. A great plague of ogresses arose on the islands which were in the vicinity. But he was little dismayed by this and as soon as these trolls wished to play tricks on Án, their lot became ever the worse.31

Possibly uninhabited islands that were in the proximity of Hrafnista were regarded as haunted by certain creatures, although there is no such instance in the version of the story as it is preserved in AM 343a 4to.32 According to Hughes33 the passage is obscure, in that “the episode contributes nothing material to Áns position, neither greater fame and glory nor additional accumulations of treasure.” All in all, the functions that Hrafnista has in the story of Án concern both the practical and the more symbolic aspects of island communication, while also playing specific narratological roles that determine the development of the narrative. A metaphoric reading of this island is also possible, while it allows us to go beyond the narrative level and to focus more on the cultural-historical significance of islands. This will be discussed below.

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Hrafnista as an Allegory of Iceland The possibility of reading less factual sagas such as fornaldarsögur as sources for historical data has gained favour in the last decades. These sagas have recently been considered as vehicles for specific ideologies or mentalities and as possibly conveying political ideas.34 In the specific case of Áns saga, it is worth mentioning that some work has been done on the Hrafnistumannasögur as a group,35 on AM 343a 4to as an expression of contemporary Nordic political culture,36 and on the early Norwegian setting of Áns saga as a mirror for the historical and political situation of late medieval Iceland.37 According to Torfi Tulinius,38 “the surviving fornaldarsögur tell us more about the concerns of their thirteenth- and fourteenth-century composers and audiences in Iceland than they do about pre-ninth-century Scandinavia.” Fornaldarsögur are even considered to be one of the “privileged vehicles of ideology” because the distancing of the events in time and space allowed the treatment of contemporary problems and complexities that might remain unspoken otherwise, whereas the proximity of the characters to the milieu of their composers and audiences could impose restraints on dealing with specific issues.39 Elizabeth Ashman Rowe40 believes that, by exploiting this narrative device characterizing the fornaldarsögur, the composer of Áns saga enjoyed greater freedom to express contemporary concerns such as political ones than the Íslendingasaga genre would have granted him. At the same time, the partial blending of the saga with the genre of the Íslendingasaga favoured the illustration of specific political themes and perspectives. The composer of the story of Án set it in Norway in an indefinite period preceding the unification of Norway and thus before the settlement of Iceland, with the intention of describing and condemning the situation Icelanders had been experiencing in the fourteenth century, when the saga was probably composed. Áns saga expresses a certain anti-royalism that was probably contemporary to the composer, as the negative attitude toward royal authority seems more understandable in the light of post Commonwealth history, rather than of pre-ninth-century Scandinavia.41 Between 1262 and 1354, Iceland was transformed into a Norwegian dependency, and from 1380 it fell under the rule of the joint kingdoms of Norway and Denmark. Royal governors and officers from the continent were often appointed in Iceland, and there is evidence of clashes between them and the Icelanders. Theodore Andersson42 informs us that opposition to foreign intrusion was firm in Northern Iceland and that political

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resistance had strong precedents especially in Eyjafjörður, where AM 343a 4to was produced. For example, the annals in Flateyjarbók relate that: In 1361 Smiður Andrésson, the hirðstjóri43 travelled to the north of Iceland, declared some of the most important farmers in the region outlaws, and indicated his intention to execute them. Smiður and his men were attacked by the people of the district one evening when lodging at a farmstead and killed.44

Hughes suggests that a similar incident may have given rise to the writing of Áns saga as we now have it, thus in the version preserved in AM 343a 4to. Hughes dates the composition of the saga back to the end of the fourteenth century, when the event took place, whereas the codex was produced a century later. As the political scenario was no less critical at the end of the fifteenth century, this event may have been revived for its significance. We understand that Margrét Vigfúsdóttir, the probable patron of AM 343a 4to, and her family “were deeply involved in the Icelandic politics of their day and had to handle conflicts involving the king, Englishmen and the Church.”45 Indeed, during the fifteenth century the influx of foreign officials, merchants and bishops was accompanied by corruption and oppression and by the fluctuating power and influence of the Danish crown.46 It has been maintained that AM 343a 4to expresses regimen politicum, a political idea corresponding to the policy of the þingvald “thing power”, and concerning the customary and lawful rights of Icelandic farmers at formal assemblies.47 Among these rights was the possibility of not revering kings unconditionally: “The alþingi could condition its acceptance of a new king. The right of the law-court to participate in legislation together with the king, and the claim that native men only should be appointed as royal officials and judges, were also part of this programme.”48 Sagas such as fornaldarsögur would mirror þingvald policy as opposed to increased royal power and developing ríkisvald “state power”: Legendary sagas are concerned with aristocratic ways of life and witness some interest among leading Icelanders to adopt new aristocratic ideas and ideals. However, they also show awareness of incapable kings or tyrants who did not deserve any loyalty from the farming community. It was natural for the leading farmers in the sagas to defy such kings.49

It seems possible to suppose that the composer of the saga, or at least the patron and scribes of AM 343a 4to, intended not only to promote Án and his descendants, but also to denounce a political situation that was

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oppressive, while possibly encouraging contemporary Icelanders to vindicate their rights. The possibility of detecting political ideas in the saga may be supported by an analysis of the relations between the Island of Hrafnista and the adjacent mainland, Norway. While keeping in mind that the sources communicate a certain ambiguity surrounding the concept of an island, it is possible to suppose that the composer of the saga exploited this ambiguity and portrayed the Island of Hrafnista, Án’s home, as an allegory of Iceland in its relationship with Norway and Denmark during the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. The fact that space was often symbolical during the Middle Ages, while “the representation of the part [was] more than sufficient to evoke in the beholder’s mind the whole”, seems to support this.50 Thus the part, Hrafnista, can arguably be read as a synecdoche for Iceland, as a microcosm of it. Therefore, the choice of the Island of Hrafnista as the home of a protagonist struggling against an unjust king may not have been casual or simply originating from the longstanding tradition of considering this island as a prestigious and independent site of power. In this way, the metaphoric potential of the insular character of Hrafnista seems to have been consciously exploited.

Concluding Remarks The roles islands play in Áns saga bogsveigis are multiple, and they correspond to the functions islands have, according to recent research, in sagas such as the Íslendingasögur. Thus in Áns saga the pragmatic aspect of island representation is accompanied by more symbolical and metaphoric functions of islands that go beyond the narrative level. The greater freedom to address contemporary concerns that the composer of the saga had was granted, not only by the narrative device of distancing the same preoccupations in time and space, characterizing the fornaldarsögur, but also by the possibility of adopting narrative elements more characteristic of another saga-genre, the Íslendingasaga in this case. This enabled the compiler to construct a more complex, discursive architecture that gave him greater freedom to communicate the desires for political freedom and autonomy. Arguably, the symbolic and metaphoric potential of islands contributed to this, while allowing one to reflect upon the relations that existed between contemporary Iceland and the Scandinavian kingdoms.

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Notes 1. Henceforth Áns saga. 2. Their protagonists are Hallbjörn hálftröll’s son Ketill hængur, “Jack-Salmon”, his son Grímur loðinkinni “Shaggy-Cheek”, and his son Örvar-Odur “Arrow”Oddur, respectively. 3. See Shaun F.D. Hughes, “Áns saga bogsveigis. The Saga of Án Bow-Bender,” in Medieval Outlaws. Twelve Tales in Modern English, ed. Thomas Ohlgren (Gloucestershire: Sutton, 2005), 290-337. Saga heroes such as Egill SkallaGrímsson and Grettir Ásmundarson were also connected with the men from Hrafnista (Hughes, Áns saga bogsveigis, 299), which augmented the prestige of the family line. Indeed, Vésteinn Ólason (1994, 107) informs us that: “according to Landnámabók [...] many prominent families in Iceland claimed descent from the men of Hrafnista”; see Vésteinn Ólason, “The Marvellous North and authorial presence in the Icelandic fornaldarsaga,” in Contexts of Pre-Novel Narrative. The European Tradition, ed. Roy Eriksen (Berlin and New York : De Gruyter, 1994), 101-34. 4. Shaun F.D. Hughes, “The Literary Antecedents of Áns saga bogsveigis” Mediæval Scandinavia 9 (1976), 212-15. 5. For example, AM 343a 4to (c. 1450-75), the most authoritative codex preserving Áns saga, contains the three Hrafnistumannasögur as well, whereas AM 471 4to (c. 1450-1500) contains the Hrafnistumannasögur but not Áns saga. Interestingly, these codexes were produced in the same period but in two different parts of Iceland, see Hans J. Orning, “The Magical Reality of the Late Middle Ages: Exploring the World of the Fornaldarsögur,” Scandinavian Journal of History 35/1 (2010), 14. The intials AM stand for Árni Magnússon, the Icelandic-Danish scholar and collector of manuscripts. 6. Helgi Þorláksson, “Aristocrats between kings and tax-paying farmers. Iceland c. 1280 to c. 1450: political culture, the political actors and evidence of sagas,” in Rex Insularum: the King of Norway and his “skattlands” as a political system 1260-c. 1450, ed. Steinar Imsen (Oslo: Fagbokforlaget, 2014), 279-81. 7. Namely: Þorsteins þáttur bæjarmagns, Samsons saga fagra, Egils saga einhenda og Ásmundar berserkjabana, Flóres saga konungs og sona hans, Vilhjálms saga sjóðs, Yngvars saga víðförla, Ketils saga hængs, Gríms saga loðinkinna, Örvar-Odds saga, Áns saga bogsveigis, Sálus saga og Nikanórs, Hálfdanar saga Eysteinssonar, Bósa saga, Vilmundar saga viðutan and Perus saga meistara. See Christopher Sanders, “Provenance and date,” in Tales of Knights: Perg Fol nr 7 in the Royal Library Stockholm, ed. Peter Springborg (Copenhagen: C.A. Reitzel, 2000), 41-55. 8. Hughes, “Áns saga bogsveigis,” 290. 9. According to Hughes, “The Literary Antecedents,” a common tradition about Án bogsveigir seems to have existed well before Áns saga was composed, as Án is mentioned in Landnámabók, Heimskringla and other sources, such as Saxo Grammaticus’ Gesta Danorum. 10.Hughes, “Áns saga bogsveigis,” 290. 11. For further details see ibid., 333.

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12. Namely Lbs 2118 4to, Lbs 3636 8vo, ÍB 205 8vo and ÍB 152 8vo. See Ólafur Halldórsson, “Inngangur,” in Áns rímur bogsveigis (Reykjavík: Stofnun Árna Magnússonar á Íslandi, 1973), 57-60. 13. Kollsbók (Guelf 42.7 Aug 4to). See Ólafur Halldórsson, “Inngangur,” 74-82. 14. Hughes, “Áns saga bogsveigis,” 290. 15. See Ólafur Halldórsson, “Inngangur,” 74-82; Hughes, “The Literary Antecedents”, 197, 206-07. 16. For example, Victor W. Turner, “An Anthropological Approach to the Icelandic Saga,” in The Translation of Culture: Essays to E.E. Evans-Pritchard, ed. Thomas O. Beidelman, (London: Travistock, 1973), 354-55; William Miller, “Home and Homelessness in the Middle of Nowhere,” in Home and Homeless in the Medieval Renaissance World, ed. Nicholas Howe (Notre Dame, Indiana: University of Notre Dame Press, 2004), 127. 17. Kristel Zilmer, “Scenes of Island Encounters in Icelandic Sagas,” Viking and Medieval Scandinavia 4 (2008), 227-48. 18. Zilmer, “Scenes of Island Encounters,” 231-33. 19. In Landnámabók we understand that the Swedish traveller Garðarr Svávarsson named the island Garðarshólmr, that is, "the Isle of Garðarr", while realizing that it was an eyland: Garðarr sigldi umhverfis landit ok vissi, at þat var eyland “Garðarr sailed around the land [Iceland] and understood that it was an islandland”. Author’s translation from Jakob Benediktsson, ed. “Landnámabók,” in Íslendingabók, Landnámabók, 35 (Reykjavík: Hið Íslenzka Fornritafélag, 1986), 35. Kristel Zilmer, “The Power and Purposes of an Insular Setting – On some Motifs in Old-Norse Literature,” in Isolated Islands in Medieval Nature, Culture and Mind, eds. Torstein Jørgensen, and Gerhard Jaritz (Budapest: Central European Press, 2011), 24-25. 20. Zilmer, “Scenes of Island Encounters,” 230. 21. Ibid., 233. 22. Ibid., 232. 23. Ibid., 231. 24. Ibid., 230. 25. Ibid., 237-41. 26. Zilmer, “The Power and Purposes of an Insular Setting”, 23, 26. 27. Ibid., 33. 28. The Old Icelandic examples are taken from Guðni Jónsson, ed. “Áns saga bogsveigis,” in Fornaldarsögur Norðurlanda, Volume 2 (Reykjavík: Íslendingasagnaútgáfan, 1954), 365-403, and the translations from Hughes, Áns saga bogsveigis, if not indicated otherwise. 29. Ástráður Eysteinsson, "Traveling Island: Grettir the Strong and his Search for a Place," in Beyond the Floating Islands, eds. Stephanos Stephanides, and Susan Bassnett (Bologna: Cotepra, 2002), 90-96, concerning islands and the self in the sagas, especially in Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar. Áns saga is the only fornaldarsaga in which the chief protagonist is an outlaw (Hughes, “Áns saga bogsveigis,” 291) and for this reason it has often been analyzed along with Íslendingasögur having outlaws as protagonists, such as Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar, Gísla saga Súrssonar and Harðar saga og Hólmverja (see

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Hughes, “The Literary Antecedents”) and Egils saga Skalla-Grímssonar, see Ruth Righter-Gould, “Áns saga bogsveigis: a Legendary Analog of Egils saga,” Mediæval Scandinavia 11 (1978), 265-70. Specifically, Áns saga resembles Egils saga in that their protagonists share the same ancestry, personality and feud with a tyrannical Norwegian king, to cite but major examples. What is more, the most authoritative codex preserving Áns saga (AM 343a 4to) was produced in the North of Iceland in an area in which Egils saga seems to have been very popular. 30. In this case the translation is the author’s. Hughes, “Áns saga bogsveigis,” 337, translates eyna as "an island", whereas this form represents the definite accusative singular declension of ey, thus “the island”. Therefore, a reference seems to be made specifically to Hrafnista, which happens to be mentioned a few lines earlier in the text. 31. Hughes, “Áns saga bogsveigis,” 337. 32. Helen Leslie, “The Matter of Hrafnista,” Quæstio Insularis 11 (2010), 189. 33. Hughes, “The Literary Antecedents,” 206-07. 34. For example Torfi H. Tulinius, The Matter of the North. The Rise of Literary Fiction in Thirteenth-Century Iceland, trans. Randi C. Eldevik (Odense: Odense University Press, 2002), Helgi Þorláksson, “Aristocrats between kings and taxpaying farmers,”; Hans J. Orning, “Legendary Sagas as Historical Sources” Tabularia 15 (2015), 57-73. 35. For example, by Helgi Þorláksson, “Aristocrats between kings and tax-paying farmers,” 279; Orning, “The Magical Reality of the Late Middle Ages.” 36. For example, Hans J. Orning, “Imagining the Kalmar union. Nordic politics as viewed from a late 15th-century Icelandic manuscript,” in Áustrvega. Saga and East Scandinavia: Preprint papers of The 14th International Saga Conference, edited by Agneta Ney, et al. (Gävle: University of Gävle, 2009), 729-37; Orning, “Legendary Sagas as Historical Sources,” 57-73. 37. For example, Elizabeth Ashman Rowe, “Generic Hybrids: Norwegian “Family” Sagas and Icelandic “Mythic-Heroic” Sagas,” Scandinavian Studies 66 (1973), 539-54. 38. Torfi Tulinius, The Matter of the North, 179-87. 39. Ibid., 40. Tulinius understands ideology as “the characteristic worldview” of a society or social group, namely “the aggregate of representations, values, and hierarchies of value that condition the relationship of the individual to the world in general and society in particular”. Cf. Orning, “The Magical Reality of the Late Middle Ages,” 4: “the distant topic of these sagas could serve as a cover-up for discussing contemporary tensions and themes.” 40. Ashman Rowe, “Generic Hybrids,” 539, 545. 41. Ibid., 548-53. 42. Theodore M. Andersson, The saga of Olaf Tryggvason by Oddr Snorrason, Islandica 52 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2003), 57. 43. "Governor", among the king’s representatives in Iceland at that time. 44. Flateyjarbók (GKS 1005 fol., 1387-94); Hughes, “Áns saga bogsveigis,” 301. Cf. Helgi Þorláksson, “Aristocrats between kings and tax-paying farmers,” 288. 45. See Orning, “Legendary Sagas as Historical Sources,” 62-65.

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46. See Magnús Stefánsson, “Iceland,” in Medieval Scandinavia: an Encyclopedia, ed. Phillip Pulsiano (New York: Garland, 1993), 318-19. 47. The farmers being the eighty-four representatives at the alþingi see Þorláksson, “Aristocrats between kings and tax-paying farmers,” 265-67. 48. Ibid., 299. 49. Ibid., 267, 279-81. 50. Aaron J. Gurevich, “Macrocosm and Microcosm,” in Categories of Medieval Culture (London: Routledge, 1972), 79.

CHAPTER SEVEN OUTLAWS OF THE NORTHERN SEAS: A COMPARISON IN THE NORTHERN CORPUS MARION POILVEZ

Narratives of outlawry in medieval Iceland are intertwined with narratives of islands. Most instances of outlaws in insular settings appear dynamically related to the mainland from which they became excluded (Norway or Iceland). Yet, when it comes to the Northern Seas, we may ask what were the dynamics of outlawry when the mainland was in fact also composed of islands? This Chapter aims to compare the widespread representation of outlawry in Íslendingasögur, the Icelandic family sagas, to the outlaw episodes from Orkneyinga saga and Færeyinga saga. The relationship between outlawry and insularity in the Northern Seas will be analysed in order to grasp the use and representation of similar legal practice in different Norse territories and political situations.

Introduction During medieval times, exile was extensively used as a form of legal punishment for criminals and/or political opponents, especially in the Germanic and Scandinavian legal traditions1. The banished man was made an útlagi “outlaw”, that is to say he was literally outside the protection of the law. As a consequence, the outlaw could be killed without any legal repercussions for the slayer, and he was no longer subject to the payment of wergild “man price”, paid as compensation to the relatives in case of a settlement. Therefore, in order to survive, the outlaw had to flee from the society which had condemned him. Medieval Iceland, which was mostly settled by Norwegian immigrants from the late ninth century onwards, who presumably imported elements of their legal culture to the new land,2 demonstrates, in the sagas set in the

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pre-Christian period and early decades of the conversion, a similar use of exile as a frequent type of legal punishment. An Icelandic full outlaw, a skógarmaðr “man-of-the-forest”, had in theory the same status as any other outlaw: he could be legally killed and it was forbidden to give him food or any type of assistance.3 However, a peculiarity appears in the Old Icelandic law compilation Grágás,4 which is also mentioned in Njáls saga5: the outlaw was óferjandi, he could not be transported or ferried. Iceland being a remote island “in the middle of nowhere”,6 this interdiction meant, in practical terms, that the outlaw could not leave the island. In other words, he became virtually a prisoner of Iceland. This is a rather contradictory situation. The main function of exile as a legal penalty was to expel the trouble-maker from the land, thus protecting society from further damage, while at the same time avoiding any chain of revenge which might take place. Yet in Iceland, once condemned, the skógarmaðr was not able to leave the land in which he was outlawed. Therefore, he necessarily remained a threat to society, and even became a greater one, as he was forced to steal food and find shelter to survive. One may well ask: why keep the criminal on the island? In order to understand this phenomenon, a comparison with other types of outlawry in the Norse context can help one to assess how accurate, how realistic and/or how uniform the social structure of outlawry in the Northern Seas was, as represented in the texts. For that reason, the Northern Isles offer an interesting perspective, as they share with medieval Iceland two important features: a Norse settlement and an insular setting having to deal, at a distance, with Norwegian rulers. This Chapter aims to compare outlaws in different geographical and political contexts from a textual perspective. It will mostly concentrate on sagas that take place in Iceland and Norway, Íslendingasögur, in the Northern Isles, Orkneyinga saga, and in the Faroe Islands, Færeyinga saga.

Fugitives and Islands As previously mentioned, outlaws were thrown out of the protection of the law and in theory could be killed without any legal consequences. Still, the fugitives needed shelter, they had "to be somewhere" despite the lack of possibilities, as Grettir sterki “the Strong”, the most famous Icelandic outlaw, insightfully points out in Grettis saga.7 Recurrently, this “somewhere” appears to be an island. Main narratives of Icelandic outlaws (Gísla saga, Grettis saga, Harðar saga) are intertwined with narratives of islands. Grettir’s fame is forever bound to the Island of Drangey in the Skagafjörður where he made his last

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stand, Gísli Súrsson could only find shelter on the Island of Hergilsey in the Breiðafjörður, and H۠rðr created for a time a new community on the Island of Geirshólmr in the Hvalfjörður. Extending the scope beyond the three main outlaw sagas, many similar examples appear in episodes about fugitives from the whole Norse corpus. For example, in the first chapters of several Íslendingasögur, islands appear as strategic settings in times of tension in Norway. In Eyrbyggja saga, many noble men fled their ancestral lands in Norway: Fyrir þeim ófríði flýðu margir gІfgir men óðul sín af Nóregi, sumir austr um KjІlu, sumir umhaf vestr; þeir váru sumir, er heldu sik á vetrum í Suðreyjum eða Orkneyjum, en um sumrum herjuðu þeir í Nóreg ok gerðu mikinn skaða í ríki Haralds konungs. Some went east across the Kjolen mountains and some west across the sea. Some spent the winter in the Hebrides or the Orkney Islands and in the summer returned to attack Norway, causing great damage in Haraldr’s realm.8

Here, one might underline the fact that the men who fled to the mountains disappear completely from the story, whereas those who went westward to the islands are able to organize plundering expeditions against the Norwegian king. Soon after, Ketill Flat-Nose is sent to the Hebrides by the King to stop the raids. He does not return and is soon made an outlaw in Norway. His property is forfeited, and his son Björn is made an outlaw for attempting to retrieve his father’s property. It is said that: BjІrn hljóp þá á skútu eina, er hann átti, með skuldalið sitt ok lausafé, ok fór undan suðr með landi, því at þá var vetrarmegn, ok treystisk hann eigi á haf at halda. BjІrn fór þar til, er hann kom í ey þá, er Mostr heitir ok liggr fyrir SunnhІrðalandi, ok þar tók við honum sá maðr, er Hrólfr hét, Ѕrnólfs sonrfiskreka; þar var BjІrn um vetrinn á laun. Bj۠rn boarded the skiff that he owned, taking his household and possessions with him, and sailed south along the coast of Norway because it was then the depths of the winter and he was not confident enough to sail the open sea. He sailed until he came to the island of Moster, which lies off southern Hordaland, and there he was received by a man named Hrólfr, the son of ۟rnolfr Fish-Driver. Bj۠rn stayed there in hiding for the rest of the winter.9

As in the first chapter of the saga, the island again appears as a shelter, as well as a transitory area before a journey to the open sea for a more definite settlement in Iceland, which Bj۠rn will later carry out.

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More examples confirm the same use of islands in times of tension with the Norwegian king. Þorsteins saga hvíta10 describes the father of Þorsteinn going to the Island of Yr because of ófriði “a lack of peace” with King Hákon. In Sneglu-Halla þáttur, the chain of islands called Hitra appears as the natural transitory stop between Iceland and Norway. In Egils saga, repeated occurrences of islands11 (the Solund Islands in chapter 25, Atløy Island in chapter 43 and Herdla in chapter 58) confirmed the affinity between a trouble-maker and islands over generations, and journeys between Norway and Iceland. Similarly in Gísla saga, when father and sons escaped their burning house in the middle of the night, they found shelter at Styrkar’s farm on Friðarey, from where they gathered a force of forty men, went to Kolbjörn’s farm and set fire to his house.12 Quickly, they bought a ship and ok koma við eyjar þær, er Æsundir heita “arrived at a group of islands called the Asen,”13 before killing Skeggi’s sons and their men and finally sailed off to Iceland. Therefore, the island is depicted as having two functions: a shelter from where to attack, and a shelter from where to prepare a journey to Iceland. Moreover, these examples showed that the association is not strictly speaking between outlaws and islands, but between trouble-makers and islands. On an island, the trouble-makers, whether legally outlawed or simply in tension with the king’s authority or some neighbours, find a strategic refuge from where they can either prepare attacks or retreat to gather goods and men before making a journey to Iceland. From this non-exhaustive list, we can already conclude that several sagas, in their Norwegian prologues, convey the general view of islands as strategic settings used in time of tensions with a king. Here, they always appear as a temporary solution, the final destination being death (Þorsteins saga hvita) or a journey to Iceland. Once the focus of the narrative turns to Iceland, islands seem to appear in the same light. In Eiríks saga rauða, it is said that: Þá var Eiríkr gІrr brott ór Haukadal. Hann nam þá Brokey ok Øxney ok bjó at TrІðum í Suðrey inn fyrsta vetr. After this Eiríkr was outlawed from Haukadalur. He claimed the islands Brokey and Öxney and farmed at Traðir on the Island of Suðurey the first winter.14

Thereafter: Þeir Eiríkr urðu sekir á Þórsnessþingi. Hann bjó í Eiríksvági, en Eyjólfr leyndi honum í Dímunarvági, meðan þeir Þorgestr leituðu hans um eyjarnar. Þeir ÞorbjІrn ok Eyjólfr ok Styrr fylgðu Eiríki út um eyjarnar.

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Eiríkr and his companions were sentenced to outlawry at the Þórsnes Assembly. He made his ship ready in Eiríksvogur and Eyjólfr hid him in Dimunarvogur while Þorgestr and his men searched the islands for him. Þorbj۠rn, Eyjólfr and Styrr accompanied Eiríkr out through the islands.15

Anticipating the forthcoming penalty – three years’ exile abroad - he headed directly for islands as a safety measure. As in the previous examples from Norway, islands have a similar transient safety function before a journey to the open sea, in this case, Greenland. Once in Greenland, Eiríkr again stops on an island which will be called Eiríksey. Other striking examples are the slaves looking for shelter in the Vestmanneyjar in Landnámabók, or the example of Hjalti, a lesser outlaw, arriving in Iceland through the Vestmanneyjar in Íslendinga saga.16 The Sturlung Age (1180-1264) displays a similar mindset, as for example in Arons saga HjІrleifssonar, where the bishop, afraid of an attack from a coalition of chieftains, goes off from Hólar to Málmey with his kinsmen for safety. Either in tensions with the King in Norway or in tension with the law or with other chieftains, the same affinity is developed between the fugitive and the island in both geographical settings, with reference to the mainland, either Norway or Iceland. To summarize, the geographic dynamics of fugitives may be classified as follows: From Norway to the Norwegian islands (Egils saga, Eyrbyggja saga, Þorsteins saga hvíta, Sneglu-Halla þáttur) From Iceland to the Icelandic islands (Landnámabók, Íslendinga saga, Eiríks saga rauða) From Norway to Shetland, Orkney, the Hebrides and Iceland (Ketill FlatNose in Eyrbyggja saga, and several of the genealogical early chapters from the Íslendingasögur)

The recurrent movement from the mainland to islands in the first two cases is always described as being temporary shelter in times of tension or as a base used to prepare an attack on the mainland. However, the movement from Norway to overseas islands is mostly described as a permanent settlement for the fugitives. Yet we should not assume that the island was a setting for institutional imprisonment, as for example in historical cases of Alcatraz (United States), Tierra del Fuego (Argentina) and Bastøy (Norway). In the sagas, outlaws and fugitives are depicted as actively choosing islands as shelter. In a study about the relationship between English and Icelandic outlaw tales, Joost De Lange states that: “The strategical value of an island is

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prominent in several of the outlaw stories: Ely in the Hereward-traditions, Drangey in Grettis saga, Hólmr in Harðar-Saga. This feature clearly rests upon historical foundations”.17 The association of outlaws and islands would thus be of a realistic nature. Several islands are indeed depicted as natural fortresses, with high cliffs and a single defended entrance: Ey sú liggr á Skagafirði er heitir Drangey. Hún er svá gott vígi at hvergi má komast upp á hana nema stigar séu við látnir [...] En er þeir komu í eyna þótti Gretti þar gott um at litast því at hún var grasi vaxin en sjábrІtt svá at hvergi mátti upp á komast nema þar sem stigarnir voru við látnir ok ef upp var dreginn inn efri stiginn þá var það einskis manns færleikr at komast á eyna. There is an island in Skagafjörður that is called Drangey. It is such a good place for anyone to defend because it can only be climbed by ladder [...] But when they reached the island, Grettir thought that what he saw was good because it was covered in grown grass but had such cliffs that rose steeply that they could not be ascended except with ladders and if the upper ladder was pulled up, it was impossible for anyone to reach the island.18

This association has been presented as “realistic” so far, in the sense that nothing seems to contradict the fact that islands were indeed strategically valuable. Indeed, making a search of an island would help locate material resources (a boat at least) and human forces (several persons to sail on each boat and/or to search several islands). Another realistic factor is that most of the time an island, even if belonging to an earl or farmer, did not have a physical settlement. Moreover, in Iceland some coastal areas were said to be almenningr “common property” (for example Drangey in Grettis saga is said to be a collective property), which means that the outlaw and/or fugitive invading the island did not enter into direct conflict with one farm-owner, but with the whole community. Beyond this realistic aspect, one can argue that, from a literary perspective, the association is aesthetically satisfying: the excluded men merged with a fragment of the land, which makes Grettir an “island-like” character.19 He is isolated, inaccessible and strong, yet still dependent on the mainland. However, it seems that sometimes the aesthetic association between outlaws and islands proves stronger than realism. For example, in Harðar saga, a band of outlaws numbering between eighty and two hundred men and women are said to live on an island 100m long and 45m wide, which is obviously not big enough in reality to shelter such a large community.

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In this case, it seems that the association between outlaws and islands was so strong that it became a topos which trumped the necessity for truth. One can even question the realism of the island-shelter. An island is noticeable in both the landscape and the seascape and so the outlaw can be easily spotted. Grettir made a rather irrational choice when he decided to leave the hidden valley of Þórisdalr, where he was safe and unnoticed, for the island of Drangey, where he would be continuously attacked and finally killed.20 It can also be said that an island can easily become a natural prison. Therefore, one is left with an ambivalent perception of islands, at the same time natural fortresses and natural prisons. It can be argued that both are not opposite but complementary aspects of insular spaces. However, the reason for the association of outlaws and islands has to be found elsewhere, in the medieval Icelandic mindscape illustrated by the sagas. All stories of fugitives on islands appear dynamically related to the mainland from where they were excluded (Norway or Iceland). They uniformly have the same movement from the mainland, where the law applies, to a smaller and self-defined space, an island, which seems to be perceived as a place not falling under the protection of the law and therefore suitable for an outlaw. This transition can be illustrated with a passage from Gísla saga set in Hergilsey: Ok þat hafa menn mælt, at Ingjaldr hafi Gísla mest veitt ok þat at mestu gagni orðit; ok þat er sagt, at þá er Þorgrímr nef gerð seiðinn, at hann mælti svá fyrir, at Gísla skyldi ekki at gagni verða, þó at menn byrgi honum hér á landi; en þat kom honum eigi í hug at skilja til um úteyjar, ok endisk því þetta hóti lengst, þótt eigi yrði þess álengðar auðit. And then it was said, that Ingjaldr served Gísli best, and that was the most helpful. And it is said that when Þorgrímr Nef performed the magic ritual, he said that Gísli should not receive help from men that live here on the mainland. But he never thought to mention the islands, and because of this [Ingjaldr] helped him longer than others.21

Thinking in terms of legal geography,22 the outlaw could be perceived as being of the same nature as the island, outside the protection of the law. From this perspective, when looking at the Northern Isles, one question can be raised: what are the dynamics of outlawry when the mainland is composed of small islands? Where does the outlaw go? Moreover, the Northern Isles are themselves a place of shelter in many fugitive stories, yet they are a centre, a settled and inhabited space, where penalties of outlawry apply too. They are at the same time peripheral, sheltering outlaws, but they are not deserted islands. They have laws of their own

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and leaders able to apply them. Therefore, their specific geographical nature, the archipelago, has to be taken into account to identify how criminals are depicted and dealt with in insular societies.

Outlaws in Orkneyinga Saga and Færeyinga Saga The first problem to face in this investigation are the sources. Regarding outlawry in medieval Iceland and Norway, there are two types of sources: legal texts, such as the Gulaþingslög and Frostaþinglög from Norway and the Grágás, Járnsíða and Jónsbók from Iceland, and sagas, the three outlaw sagas and outlaw episodes in most sagas depicting the Saga Age up to the Sturlung Age. Clearly, the use of both types of documents requires a critical approach, but they are nevertheless rich sources which can provide much useful information, especially in aspects where they do not contradict each other. By contrast, one faces a scarcity of sources concerning the Northern Isles. Written legal records do not extend beyond the sixteenth century. Udal law was presumably based on the Norwegian Gulaþingslög, influenced by Scottish legal tradition.23 Only a few episodes from the sagas are useful, and even those are written from an Icelandic perspective, as medieval sources written in the Northern Isles themselves are not preserved. Therefore, one must acknowledge that any conclusions one might reach will be taken from a textual perspective and will clearly have an Icelandic bias. The first outlaw of the Northern Isles mentioned in Orkneyinga saga is Sveinn Ásleifarson, a man from a prominent family in Caithness (c.1115 – 1171). A feast is said to have turned bad and he kills one of Earl Páll’s bodyguards. He flees quickly afterwards and it is said that: Ekki spurði jarl til Sveins á þeim vetri, ok lét hann gera Svein útlægan. The Earl did not hear about Sveinn during the winter, so he ordered that Sveinn was made an outlaw.24

Sveinn finds shelter, first in a stronghold in Damsay, then in Egilsay with Bishop William. Later, he is sent to Tiree (a small island in the Hebrides) to Holdboði Hundason, and afterwards he is thought to have gone to Paplay with Saint Magnus’ brother. He finally finds shelter in Scotland with Earl Maddaðr and his friends. Once outlawed, Sveinn continues to lead a life of raiding and plundering, and spends most winters in the company of important men of the Northern Sea. In practice, the only person he has to avoid is the one who outlawed him, Earl Páll. Finally, he

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is hired by Earl Páll’s sister Margaret to attack and blind the ruler. Margaret will also hire another man to kill the earl soon after this. In consequence, after some discussions between Earl R۠gnvaldr and the bishop, Sveinn is given a truce, and plays an important role in the future. One can see here that he was only the outlaw of Earl Páll, not of all the earldom. The second outlaw of the Northern Isles is Þorbj۠rn klerkr Þórsteinnson. He is Sveinn’s brother-in-law, a counsellor of Earl Haraldr and a pirate. Þórbj۠rn is outlawed by Earl R۠gnvaldr after another feast brawl where a retainer is killed: Fyrir þessa sІk gerði RІgnvaldr jarl ÞorbjІrn útlægan fyrir allt sitt ríki. For this offence, Earl R۠gnvaldr made Þorbj۠rn an outlaw in the whole of his domain.25

Þorbj۠rn finds shelter, first in Caithness, and then with Malcolm, king of Scots. He will later participate in the killing of Earl R۠gnvaldr. Later, Earl Haraldr and Earl Magnus will take it upon themselves to kill Þorbj۠rn for the dishonour he has brought on himself by killing an earl in 1158. Both characters, Sveinn and Þorbj۠rn, are named as útlægan, which is the same word used for cases of outlawry in Norway, but which appears far less frequently when it comes to cases that happen within the Icelandic landscape.26 Orkneyinga saga is particularly meaningful as a source, as it describes outlawry as the result of the decision of a single leader, in contrast to the Icelandic court system based on the common decision taken in the assembly. For the Northern Isles, outlawing is described as the responsibility of the earls from beginning to end. The ruler can either pardon the outlaw or proceed to his killing or execution. Moreover, the outlaw is at the core of a power struggle between pretenders and earls. The only person he has to avoid is the earl and some of his powerful allies. He has no trouble obtaining a ship or wandering across land and sea. He can find shelter in the Hebrides or in Caithness. He is never fully an outcast nor does he hide in a deserted wild space, but is always under the protection of another leader, a powerful local figure, either Norse or Scottish. In contrast with other sagas and outlaw episodes that happen in Norway or Iceland, there is no mention of a commoner or farmer being outlawed. It seems that outlawry only focuses on leaders or important men who play a role in the struggle for power. Unfortunately, this bias does not give us any indication of how more regular criminal acts could have been handled in the Northern Isles.

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The first outlaw case in Færeyinga saga is Þorkell þurrafrost, who is outlawed in Norway for marrying the wrong woman. He is said to have lived in the Norwegian woods with his wife and daughter for eighteen years. Afterwards, he asks forgiveness from the local earl. He is granted a pardon and allowed to reintegrate into his community.27 In a similar way, Haraldr járnhaus, a man outlawed from Norway by Earl Hákon, obtains shelter in Orkney. The earl asks one of his retainers to find and kill him, for: Hann er útlagi minn ok óvinr sem mestr ok hefir marga óspekð gІrt í Nóregi. He is my outlaw and greatest enemy, and has caused a lot of troubles in Norway.28

Although the saga does not describe cases of outlawry in the Faroe Islands, it is interesting to stress the use of the possessive “my” here. This seems to reveal a kind of one-to-one, personal relationship between the leader and the outlaw. This strangely echoes an episode in Eyrbyggja saga, set in Norway: Haraldr konungr spurði at Þórólfr Mostrarskegg hafði haldit BjІrn Ketilsson, útlaga hans. King Haraldr heard the news that Þórólfr mostrarskegg had sheltered Bj۠rn Ketilsson, his outlaw.29

We might suspect that this possessive adjective, explicit in both cases in a Norwegian context, might be connected to the nature of the leadership. Along the same lines, but in an Icelandic context during the Sturlung Age, Sturla in Arons saga HjІrleifssonar30 twice calls Aron “his outlaw”. Once again, this reveals the nature of the power Sturla is aspiring to and which is closer to examples from Norwegian contexts: a lord-like power. Orkneyinga saga and Færeyinga saga, along with Jómsvikinga saga, were categorized as “political sagas”,31 a hybrid genre characteristic of early texts, somewhere between the kings’ sagas and family sagas that were composed before 1220. These narratives are characterized by struggles for power and independence and questions about kingship, particularly in connection with the Norwegian crown. It seems crucial to stress that all of these three sagas happen in insular communities dealing with the Norwegian crown and they all describe outlawry as a form of political exile. In other words, outlawry is a tool in the struggle for power,

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and this is meaningfully different from the description of outlaws of the Icelandic Saga Age. Orkneyinga saga starts with a similar association between fugitives and islands, presenting a discourse about independence. This aspect reaches a deeper level in the Norse mindscape in this quasi-mythical story told in the early chapters, with the birth of Norway and Orkney as territories: Þrimr vetrum síðarr strengðu þeir brœðr heit, at þeir skyldi hennar leita, ok skipta svá leitinni, at Nórr skyldi leita um lІndin, en Górr skyldi leita um útsker ok eyjar, ok fór hann á skipum […]Þaðan sneri Nórr aptr norðr til ríkis þess, er hann hafði undir sik lagt; þat kallaði hann Nórveg […] Górr hafði eyjarnar, ok var hann því kallaðr sækonungr; hans synir váru þeir Heiti ok Beiti; þeir váru sækonungar ok ofstopamenn miklir. Þeir gengu mjІk á ríki sona Nórs, ok átti þeir orrostur margar […] Heiti, sonr Górs, var faðir Sveiðar sækonungs, fІður Hálfdanar ins gamla […] fІður RІgnvalds jarls ins ríka ok ins ráðsvinna. Three winters later, Nórr and Górr made a solemn vow to set out in search for her [their sister Gói] and this was arranged, that Nórr will search in the mainland but Górr in all the islands and outlying skerries, travelling by ship […] From there, Nórr made his way back north to the country he had laid claim to: he called it Norway […] Górr got the islands, and that is why he was called a sea-king. His sons were Heiti and Beiti. They were seakings and very aggressive men. They made many attacks on the domains of the sons of Nórr and fought many battles […] Heiti, the son of Górr, was the father of the sea-king Sveiði, father of Hálfdan the old […] father of the Earl R۠gnvaldr the wise and powerful.32

Starting the saga with the division and tensions between Norway as the mainland and the islands as the base for attack and plunder reveals the saga author’s perception of Norse-settled islands as being resistant towards growing royal power and having an independence rooted in the mythical past.

Outlawry in Saga Age Iceland At the time of settlement, Iceland was also depicted as being a shelter for fugitives. However, it was independent from Norway until 1262 and had its own legal system, which differed from the other insular contexts. For example, there was no death penalty in Iceland, while executions are mentioned on several occasions in both Orkneyinga saga and Færeyinga saga, often involving the participation of the king of Norway. The most

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striking case is probably the execution of Saint Magnús.33 The penalty is ordered by Earl Hákon. He asks one of his men to proceed with the execution, but the latter refuses. The Earl is forced to give the order to his cook, Lífólfr. Even this lowly man carries out the execution against his will. Another reference to differences in the penal system is the mention of myrkvastofa “dungeon”.34 Such facilities to hold prisoners were absent from the Icelandic landscape, even if they are referred to when characters travel to other lands; for example, Þorsteinn in Grettis saga, was held in a myrkvastofa in Byzantium.35 In Saga Age Iceland (870-1056 AD), we encounter two types of outlawry, and not only one as seems to have existed in the Northern Isles or in Norway. Icelandic sources, both legal and literary, are quite clear on how outlawry and the island were related. The criminal was either sentenced to fjІrbaugsgarðr “temporary exile from Iceland”, a form of “educational exile”, or to skóggangr, being expelled from society but forbidden to leave Iceland. This second penalty made the outlaw wander in the wild and unwelcoming spaces of Iceland. This might be called “inner exile”. Therefore, Icelandic outlaws were either totally expelled from the island for three years, or imprisoned inside it until they died from starvation, from cold or by being hunted down. In general, the examples which depict the Saga Age do not show outlawry as political but instead as the response to an actual crime (Gísla saga, Harðar saga) or to anti-social behaviour (Grettis saga). The outlaw is described as a threat to the safety of local farmers or travellers, an enemy of the whole community, and thus becomes some kind of wild man. By contrast, the outlaw in the Northern Isles and Norway is depicted as a threat to personal power, as if there is some kind of duel between lord and outlaw. The exiled man has no difficulty continuing his life of plundering, as long as he is able to avoid the reach of the lord who has outlawed him. There could be two main reasons for these differences. Firstly, the geographically insular setting of Iceland. While that country is not as large as Norway, which holds endless possibilities for hiding or reaching other lands, it is not as small as the Faroe Islands, Orkney or Shetland, where there is literally no place to hide. The seascape of the archipelagos made the outlaw too exposed. Iceland is an unusual case, mid-way between a land and an island, large enough to hide in but too small to start again beyond the reach of the law. Interestingly, this gives excellent possibilities for creating outlaw stories and folktales, as the outlaws still wander near the inhabited spaces.

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Secondly, we might relate the differences to the fact that Icelandic society at the time of the Saga Age was stateless. There was no centralized executive power. This created a different type of power-balance. During Saga Age Iceland, no chieftain had the power to decide alone which man was outlawed, or had the power to pardon and reintegrate an exile, or to execute anyone, except for petty acts of thievery.

Conclusion These examples from Orkneyinga saga and Færeyinga saga exhibit similarities with other forms of exile and outlawry present in medieval Europe, especially in Norway. This contrast between Iceland and the rest of the Norse settlements reveals an impressive self-awareness from medieval Icelandic authors, who depicted their own social structure as different from those of neighbouring lands and islands. In addition, it helps to underline, by contrast, the uniqueness of Icelandic full outlawry, which was based on keeping the criminal as a prisoner of Iceland, while in other Norse territories, they frequently escaped. Why would they keep a dangerous threat within the island? The Norse settlers may have taken advantage of Iceland being a remote island, yet large enough, and turned it to their advantage. Full Icelandic outlawry could be said to be a kind of scapegoating process,36 useful to manage violence in a stateless society. While focused on an immediate threat, such as an outlaw scavenging a district, a community would then unite against him and put aside their own differences in the face of a greater danger. Moreover, the depiction of the outlaw in the Northern Isles can be useful to fill gaps in the history of the development of outlawry in medieval Iceland. After the end of the Commonwealth Era and the introduction of a new law code in 1271, we do not have sagas set in Iceland, so it is difficult to know how the change in legal procedures affected outlawry. Was the death penalty actually performed? Was the distant Norwegian king making decisions on outlaw-cases? It might be argued that the situation in Orkney, Shetland and the Faroe Islands, which were depicted as already subject to the Norwegian monarchy, might give us, by analogy, a glimpse of how outlawry might have been handled in Iceland after the end of the Commonwealth. It is highly possible that it was a situation of dynamic tension between local decision-making chieftains and sheriffs, and mandates from the Norwegian king, with outlawry being mostly a tool for political struggles, such as described in Orkneyinga saga. Indeed, the killing of Saint Magnus by Earl Hákon, who was removing a rival, recalls the growing political tensions leading to the

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Sturlung Age in Iceland, and, for example, the execution of the Icelandic chieftain Hrafn Sveinbjarnarson (Hrafns saga Sveinbjarnarsonar). Finally, the issue should be addressed about the popularity of Icelandic outlaw characters during medieval times and today. The Norse outlaws were not “champions of justice”37 as in the classic example of Robin Hood. They did not have high moral qualities nor did they represent a noble cause but most often their own interest. Nevertheless, they remained popular topics for narrative. It could be said that outlaws who found shelter on islands recreated, in the eyes of the audience, their own origins. For example, the medieval Icelanders depicted their own ancestors as fugitives from Norway who found shelter on an empty island and created a new society there. In a similar way, H۠rðr (Harðar saga) and the Jómsvíkingar (Jómsvíkinga saga) created their own law on an island, and one could claim that outlaws and pirates, inhabiting a seascape dotted with islands, possibly represent the origins of the whole Norse community, and therefore explain its empathy with outlaws in the stories. The constructed division between land and island was a powerful and recurrent motif, which became part of the strong insular identities created through the sagas.

Notes 1. Elisabeth van Houts, and Laura Napran, eds. Exile in the Middle Ages (Brepols: Turnhout, 2004). 2. In the Íslendingabók (c. 1125) Ari froði narrates how the laws were brought from Norway by Úlfljótr (chapter 2) and modelled on an oral version of the provincial Norwegian law Gulaþingslög. The validity of Ari’s statement can be questioned, even though a legal continuity between Norway and Iceland seems realistic, as the settlers would not have established laws radically different from the social and legal structures they were used to in Norway. 3. Gabriel Turville-Petre, “Outlawry,” in Sjötíu Ritgerðir (Reykjavík: Stofun Arna Magnussonar, 1977). 4. Grágás, Section 1.12.3. See Vilhjálmur Finsen, ed. Grágás. Islændernes Lovbog i Fristantens Tid, udgivet efter det Kongelige Bibliotheks Haandskrift, I – II. (Kjøbenhaven: Brødrene Berling, 1842). 5. Brennu-Njáls saga, Chapter 73. See Einar Ól. Sveinsson, ed. “Brennu-Njáls saga.” Íslenzk fornrit 12 (Reykjavík, Iceland: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1954). 6. William Miller, “Home and Homelessness in the Middle of Nowhere,” in Home and Homeless in the Medieval Renaissance World (Notre Dame, Indiana: University of Notre Dame Press, 2004), 125-42. 7. “…vera varð ek n۠kkur,” Grettis saga, Chapter 52, 169. All translations are by the author. See Guðni Jónsson, ed. “Grettis saga Ásmundarsonar. Bandamanna saga.” Íslenzk fornrit 7 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1936).

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8. Eyrbyggja saga, Chapter 1, 4. See Einar Ól. Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, eds. “Eyrbyggja saga” Íslenzk fornrit 4. (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1935). 9. Eyrbyggja saga, Chapter 2, 5-6. 10. Þorsteins saga hvíta, Chapter 1. See Jón Jóhannesson, ed. “Austfirðinga sögur Þorsteins saga Hvíta” Íslenzk fornrit 11. (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1950). 11. Egils saga - The Solund Islands Chapter 25, Atløy Island Chapter 43, Herdla Island Chapter 58. See Sigurður Nordal, ed. “Egils saga Skalla-Grímssonar.” Íslenzk fornrit 2. (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1933). 12. Unparaphrased version “En þau Gísli fara, unz þau koma í Friðarey til Styrkárs, ok eflask þaðan at liði ok fá fjóra tigu manna ok koma á óvart til Kolbjarnar ok brenna hann inni við tólft mann” Gísla saga, 13. 13. Unparaphrased version “ok koma við eyjar þær, er Æsundir heita, ok liggja þar til hafs,” Gísla saga, 13. 14. Eiríks saga rauða, Chapter 2, 198. See Einar Ól. Sveinsson and Matthías Þórðarson, eds. “Eiríks saga rauða” Íslenzk fornrit 4. (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1935). 15. Eiríks saga rauða, Chapter, 199. The same story is echoed in Eyrbyggja saga, Chapter 24. 16. Íslendingasaga is part of the Sturlunga compilation. 17. Joost de Lange, The Relation and Development of English and Icelandic Outlaw-Tradition (Haarlem: H.D. Tjeenk Willink and Zoon, 1935). 18. Grettis saga, Chapter 67 – 69, 218-225. 19. Ástráður Eysteinsson, “Traveling Island: Grettir the Strong and his Search for a Place,” in Beyond the Floating Islands, eds. Stephanos Stephanides, and Susan Bassnett (Bologna: Cotepra, 2002), 90-96. 20. Grettis saga, Chapter 82. 21. Gísla saga, Chapter 26, 84. 22. For legal geography see Nicholas K. Blomley, Law, Space, and the Geographies of Power (New York: Guilford,1994). 23. Michael Jones, “I do not know in Scotland a valley so beautiful ...": Samuel Laing's topographical-geographical observations in Central Norway, 1834-1836,” Journal of the North Atlantic, (Special Volume 4, 2013), 207- 218. 24. Orkneyinga saga, Chapter 67, 155. See Finnbogi Guðmundsson, ed. “Orkneyinga saga” Íslenzk fornrit 34 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1965). 25. Orkneyinga saga, Chapter 100, 273. 26. Anne Irene Riisøy, “Outlawry: From Western Norway to England,” in New Approaches to Early Law in Scandinavia eds. Stefan Brink, et al. (Turnhout: Brepols, 2014), 101–129. 27. Ólafur Halldórsson, ed. “Færeyinga saga” Íslenzk fornrit 25 (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 2006), Chapter 16. 28. Færeyinga saga, Chapter 21, 45. 29. Eyrbyggja saga, Chapter 3, 6.

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30. Arons saga HjІrleifssonar, Chapters 11 and 13. See Jón Jóhannesson, et al., eds. “Arons saga”. In Sturlunga saga I-II (Reykjavík: Sturlunguútgafa, 1946). 31.Melissa Berman, “The Political Sagas,” Scand. Studies57 (1985),113-29. 32. Orkneyinga saga, Chapter 1-3. 33. Orkneyingasaga, Chapter 50. 34. Ibid., Chapter 75. 35. Grettis saga, Chapter 86. 36. René Girard, The Scapegoat (Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press, 1989). 37. Maurice Keen, The Outlaws of Medieval Legend (London: Routledge 1987).

CHAPTER EIGHT THE MODER DY: STEERING BY THE WAVES IN SHETLAND’S SEAS IAN NAPIER

Introduction The moder dy1 was a means by which Shetland fishermen of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries (and probably earlier) were reportedly able to find their way back to land in poor visibility. These fishermen took relatively small open boats 40 to 50 nautical miles (65 to 80 km) offshore, but during most of this period they had no magnetic compasses or other navigational instruments. Although the moder dy is frequently referred to in accounts of the fisheries of this period, these generally give little detail of the phenomenon and the exact nature of the moder dy and how it was used remains unclear. This Chapter draws on principles of physical oceanography2 to propose a possible explanation for what the moder dy was and how it was used. As well as casting light on the specific phenomenon of the moder dy, this highlights the potential for scientific knowledge of the oceans to contribute to a better understanding of social, cultural and historical issues linked to the sea. Although now associated mainly with the haaf fishery of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, knowledge of and the use of the moder dy is likely to be of considerably greater antiquity. The term is derived from moderdäi in Norn, the extinct Norse language of the Northern Isles.3 Thus knowledge and use of the moder dy likely predates the decline and extinction of the Norn language in Shetland, which followed the Islands’ transfer to Scotland in the fifteenth century.

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The Haaf Fishery The moder dy is now particularly associated with the haaf fishery, haaf being the Shetland term for the open ocean or deep sea, outside of coastal waters.4 The haaf fishery took place in Shetland over a period of more than a hundred years, from the mid-eighteenth to the latter part of the nineteenth century.5 The fishery used sixareens – six oared, open boats of up to 9 metres (30 feet) in length – and long-lines to fish for species such as ling (Molva molva) and cod (Gadus morhua). The fishing grounds furthest offshore were 40 to 50 nautical miles (65 to 80 km) from land and known as the “far haaf”. To the west of Shetland, these grounds lay along the edge of the continental shelf, about the “100 fathom” line (about 200m deep). The haaf fishery in Shetland was confined to the summer months, from May to August, to fit with the pattern of agricultural work in Shetland and due to the need for settled weather and longer daylight hours.6 Fishing trips generally lasted between one and two days. The haaf fishery declined from the 1870s onwards and was extinct by the end of the century, partly due to the growth of other forms of fishing using larger and more seaworthy vessels.7 For much of the period of the haaf fishery magnetic compasses were not commonly used in sixareens and the haaf fishermen had to rely on their own senses to guide them back to land. Shetland’s highest hill (Ronas Hill; 450 m / 1,480 feet) can be seen from about 40 nautical miles (75 km) offshore in clear weather, and other high hills in Shetland from at least 30 nautical miles (55 km) away. However, these cues would not have been available when visibility was poor, especially in mist or fog, which are not uncommon in Shetland during the summer months. It was during such periods of poor visibility that the moder dy was said to have been used.

The Moder Dy From surviving descriptions, it is not clear exactly what the moder dy was or how it was used by haaf fishermen: no detailed or first-hand descriptions of the phenomenon are known. It is apparent, however, that the moder dy was a phenomenon that could be detected or sensed by men in relatively small, open boats, out of sight of land. It is likely that it was something that could be seen and/or perhaps felt; there is no suggestion that any instrument was required to detect the moder dy. Jakobsen suggested that moder dy (which he spelt moderdäi) could be translated literally as “mother wave”, the uncompounded “dy” (däi) referring

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to “wave-motion on the surface of the sea (caused by the wind)”, while moder was probably derived from the Old Norse móðir “mother”, in this case denoting “basis” or “foundation”. Confusingly, however, Jakobsen defined the moder dy as a current: “a shoreward drift, current under the surface of the sea, by which fishermen (before the compass was in general use) steered their boats to the shore in foggy weather”.8 As discussed below, waves and currents are distinct phenomena. The definition of the moder dy as a current is still sometimes used: “the constant but invisible current between Foula and Shetland’s Mainland which occurs independent of weather”,9 for example, or “a sea current that runs off the coast of Shetland”.10 Other writers have defined the moder dy as a wave: “the innate swell of the sea; the heaving motion of the sea which goes on continually irrespective of the local winds”11; “a surge which drives landward no matter what direction the wind blew … said to occur every seventh wave”12 on a moderate Atlantic swell; “the underlying swell of the sea which experienced haaf-men could detect and use as a guide”13; and “an underlying swell of the sea which experienced seamen were said to be able to detect and use to steer by as it always set landwards irrespective of wind or the state of the sea, every ninth wave.”14 The use of the moder dy was described in a poem by Jessie Saxby, which, when first published, probably about 1900,15 was accompanied by a statement that: “Old fishermen used to tell us that each ninth wave was larger than the rest and always flowed towards the land, and without breaking.” The poem describes a haaf fishing trip by a sixareen, narrated by one of the crew. Having survived a storm, the boat is beset by mist so that the crew can see no sign of the land. One of the crew tells the others to “look out for the moder dy / And mark how she runs.” “The eight little waves that come before, / run this way and that,” he tells them, but the moder dy “flows straight with a long free sweep.” “We need no compass or light from the sky / … She makes for the land… / and will guide us safely home.”16 Although varying somewhat in detail, the definitions of the moder dy as a wave suggest a number of common characteristics: a less frequent wave, distinguishable from other waves, and with a consistent direction.

Currents and Waves To understand the possible basis of the moder dy it is necessary to provide an overview of the behaviour of currents and waves in the ocean.

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It is important also to appreciate that currents and waves are distinct phenomena. Jakobsen defined the moder dy as a current, a definition that is still used to this day. Surface ocean currents are very large-scale, continuous horizontal movements of the uppermost layers of the ocean (above 400 metres) which form an interlinked pattern of circulation throughout the world’s ocean.17 These currents are driven mainly by the wind, particularly the tropical trade winds, and their direction and strength are influenced by the earth’s rotation and by the shapes of the ocean basins. There is also a slow, gravity-driven circulation of water in the deep ocean, below about 400 metres. In the waters around Shetland, the principal ocean current is the Shelf Edge Current, which flows in a north-easterly direction along the edge of the continental shelf to the west of the Islands (see Figure 8.1).18 Offshoots of this current flow into the North Sea through the Fair Isle Channel as the Fair Isle Current, and round the north of Shetland and south along its east coast as the East Shetland Atlantic Inflow. West of Shetland, the speed of the Shelf Edge Current is generally about 1 knot (less than 2 km/h). The Fair Isle Current and East Shetland Atlantic Inflow are more variable in strength and are influenced by the direction and strength of the wind.19 Currents are also generated by the tides, the periodic, short-term changes in the height of the sea’s surface caused by a combination of the earth’s motion and the gravitational effects of the moon and the sun.20 Tidal currents are generated in specific locations where these changes in sea level cause water to flow through channels or around headlands, for example. The direction and strength of these currents change throughout the tidal cycle. Away from such specific locations and away from the land, however, tidal currents are generally negligible. In both ocean and tidal currents, the whole body of water is in motion. With no fixed reference points, it is very difficult to detect a current from a small boat out of sight of land. Thus, although a sixareen near the edge of the continental shelf to the west of Shetland would tend to be carried to the north-east by the Shelf Edge Current, its crew would be unlikely to notice, except perhaps when their fishing lines were set on the sea-bed. Jakobsen not only defined the moder dy as a current, but as a current beneath the surface of the sea: others have used the term “undercurrent”. Although there are some places in the world’s ocean where a current at depth flows in a different direction to that at the surface, these tend to occur at significant depths (hundreds of metres) and there are none around Shetland. Furthermore, if it is difficult to detect a surface current from a small boat, it is all but impossible to detect a current beneath the surface.

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Figure 8.1 Sim mplified map showing s the app proximate pathhs of the princip pal surface ocean currennts around Shettland: The Sheelf Edge Currennt, the Fair Islle Current (FIC) and East Shetland Atlantic A Inflow w (ESAI). The 100m and 20 00m depth contours are aalso shown (Aft fter Turrell et al., 1996).

The modder dy has alsoo been describ bed as a wavee or swell.21 Waves W are disturbancess that travel across a the surrface of the o cean but reprresent the movement oof energy rathher than of waater.22 Unlike currents, therre is little overall movvement of watter in waves; a boat or othher floating ob bject will bob up and ddown as wavees pass but rem main more or less in the sam me place. The prinncipal charactteristics of a wave’s “sizze” are its heeight (the difference inn height between the bottom m of a trough and the top of o a crest) and wavelenngth (the horiizontal distan nce between ssuccessive creests). The speed of a w wave is the disstance that it travels t in a seet period of tim me, while its period iss the time innterval betweeen two succeessive crests passing p a fixed point.. A wave’s speed s is prop portional to it its wavelength h; longer waves travell faster. Most seaa waves are generated g by the t wind. Theeir size is a fu unction of the strength of the wind, the length of time for whicch the wind bllows, and the fetch (thhe distance ovver which the wind blows aacross the sea surface). Generally sppeaking, stronger winds blowing b for loonger periodss of time across greatter distances will w generate larger waves, up to a maxiimum for

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each set of conditions. While a gentle breeze (Force 3 on the Beaufort Scale) can generate waves with an average height of 0.3 metres and an average wavelength of 9 metres given sufficient fetch and time, a gale (Force 8) can generate waves with an average height of 8.5 metres and an average wavelength of 136 metres (see Table 8.1). More extreme conditions can generate much larger waves, and individual waves can be much larger than these averages suggest. Table 8.1. Average wave sizes resulting from different wind strengths (After Garrison, 2002, Table 10.2). Note that the wave sizes shown are averages; individual waves can be much larger than these suggest. (Wind force shown is on the Beaufort wind force scale.) Wind Conditions Speed (km/h)

Force (Beau)

Wave Size (Averages) Height (m)

Length (m)

Period (s)

Speed (km/h)

19

3

0.3

9

3

10

37

5

1.5

34

6

21

56

7

4.1

76

9

32

74

8

8.5

136

11

43

92

10

14.8

212

14

53

Within an area of wave generation, where the wind is blowing across the surface of the sea, there is a mixture of waves of different wavelengths, heights and periods, creating an irregular and chaotic surface referred to as “sea”.23 Waves radiate out from these areas of wave generation and, because waves with longer wavelengths travel faster, they leave the area of wave formation sooner and outrun their smaller siblings. Thus waves sort themselves into regular patterns of similarly-sized waves known as “swell”. Swell waves can travel well beyond an area of wave generation, with the longest waves travelling the fastest and furthest. In deep water,

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swell waves can travel for thousands of kilometres with very little loss of energy, losing height but maintaining their length, speed and direction.24 Consequently, at any particular point in the world’s ocean, there may be two or three swells of different sizes arriving from different directions, which may additionally be overlain by locally-generated waves.25 Swell waves are much less affected by local wind conditions than the local “sea”. Thus, if the wind changes strength or direction, the locallygenerated wind waves will fairly rapidly change their direction and characteristics also, but the direction and characteristics of the swell will persist for a much longer period of time.26 Waves start to interact with the sea-bed when the water depth is less than half their wavelength.27 This interaction slows the waves and causes them to turn towards shallower water in a process known as “wave refraction”, which is why waves usually approach in lines parallel to the shore. As waves enter shallower water they slow further, become higher, and usually will eventually break.28

Understanding the Moder Dy Given the difficulty of detecting currents from small boats, it seems unlikely that the moder dy could have been a current, as was suggested by Jakobsen. It seems more likely that the moder dy was a particular kind of wave, something that fits with the majority of sources.29 It is hypothesised that the moder dy was long swell waves from distant sources. The wave environment in the waters around Shetland will comprise a mixture of locally generated waves, reflecting the strength and direction of local winds, and of swells from more distant sources (potentially thousands of kilometres distant). Bearing in mind that haaf fishermen avoided, as far as possible, being at sea in rough weather, the locally generated waves that they encountered would generally have been relatively small and variable in direction, reflecting the local wind conditions. In contrast, swell waves arriving in Shetland waters from distant sources will arrive from more consistent directions and will have much longer wavelengths and periods, although they probably will not be very high. Long swell waves from distant sources can approach Shetland from just two directions (See Figure 8.2), either from the Atlantic Ocean to the west, having passed through the relatively narrow gap between Faroe and Scotland, or from the Norwegian Sea to the north. The North Sea to the south and east of Shetland is too small and shallow for long swell waves to develop. With the edge of the continental shelf (200 metres deep) lying

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close to the north and west of Shetland, and deep water (> 100 m) close inshore, long swell waves can approach close to the islands from these directions without interference with the sea-bed. The orientation and size of these waves will be largely unaffected by local weather and sea conditions. The probable characteristics of long swell waves in the waters around Shetland would appear to match many of the suggested characteristics of the moder dy: a distinctive wave pattern, underlying and less common than the normal run of locally-generated waves, and waves which do not break. It seems reasonable to suggest that experienced haaf fishermen would have been able to distinguish these long swell waves from the shorter locally-generated waves, and perceive their direction. Swell waves from the Atlantic Ocean will tend to have an approximately north-south orientation and move from west to east (see Figure 8.2), and, for haaf fishermen working to the west of Shetland, would generally have set towards the land. Swell waves from the Norwegian Sea will tend to have an east-west orientation and move from north to south, possibly passing down either side of Shetland. They could thus potentially have provided guidance for fishermen both to the west of Shetland and to the east, where Atlantic swells are less likely to penetrate. In this case, the direction back to land would be roughly parallel to the lines of the swells. The direction of travel of swell waves from either source will likely be modified by wave refraction as they enter the shallower waters close to Shetland, which might have provided additional guidance to experienced haaf fishermen. It is likely that haaf fishermen’s ability to use the moder dy relied on their ability to sense and interpret wave patterns and use them to construct a mental (or cognitive) “map”30 of the seascape31 that they traversed during their fishing trips. That is, as a sixareen made its way to the fishing grounds, its crew would, perhaps subconsciously, register the pattern of waves that they encountered, including the underlying swell. Over the short duration of each fishing trip, typically no more than two days, the pattern of swell waves would have provided a relatively stable reference framework that they could use to navigate if necessary. In simple terms, if haaf fishermen encountered long swell waves coming from their righthand side while they were rowing out to the fishing grounds, they would have known that keeping those same swell waves coming from their lefthand side would keep them in the right direction to get back to land. The use of underlying swell and other cues to construct a mental map and its

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use for naviigation in pooor visibility haas been vividlly described in i a more 3 modern conttext by Huth.32 Figure 8.2 M Map showing thhe conjectured orientations o f long wavelen ngth swell waves approaaching Shetlandd. Those from th he Atlantic Oceean to the west are shown in solid lines and those frrom the Norw wegian Sea are shown in dasshed lines (copyright auuthor).

In this m model, the abssolute directio on and characcteristics of th he moder dy would m matter less thhan the fact that t those chharacteristics remained relatively uunchanged duuring each fishing trip. Itt may be a mistake, therefore, too imagine thee moder dy as a fixed and uunchanging; its i nature probably didd change overr longer perio ods of time, beetween fishin ng trips or over the couurse of the fishhing season, fo or example. There m may be parallells between thee moder dy annd traditional seafarers’ s use of swelll waves to naavigate in thee Pacific Oceean, particularrly in the Marshall Isllands of Microonesia.33 How wever, the wavve patterns used by the Marshallesee appear to havve been relativ vely fixed oveer long period ds of time,

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allowing physical “maps” (stick charts) to be constructed,34 so may not be an exact parallel to the (presumably) more variable moder dy.

Conclusion It is suggested that long swell waves from distant sources in the Atlantic Ocean and/or Norwegian Sea provide a potential explanation for the moder dy, one that is consistent with most of the published descriptions of the phenomenon. The existence and magnitude of long swell waves in the waters around Shetland could potentially be demonstrated by examination of data from wave-recording buoys that have been deployed around the Islands. As the example of the moder dy demonstrates, although the sea has had a profound influence on Shetland life, that influence has often been described only in very general – if not vague – terms. The physical characteristics of Shetland’s seas rarely appear to have been considered in detail or perhaps even understood by many of those who have studied and written on the Islands’ culture, history and heritage. Yet the physical characteristics of the oceans in general, and of the seas around Shetland, have been intensively studied and are well understood by ocean scientists. Furthermore, those scientists have a precise terminology to describe oceanographic phenomena. A better understanding of oceanographic phenomena, and the terminology used to describe them, would surely enhance the study – and understanding – of aspects of Shetland’s maritime history, culture and heritage, and could open up new avenues for fruitful cross-disciplinary collaborative research.

Notes 1. Other spellings include moderdäi or moder dye. 2. Physical oceanography is the study of physical conditions and physical processes within the ocean, especially the motions and physical properties of ocean waters. 3. Jacob Jakobsen, An Etymological Dictionary of the Norn Language in Shetland (Lerwick: Shetland Folk Society 1985). 4. Ibid.; John Graham, The Shetland Dictionary (Lerwick: The Shetland Times Ltd, 1999). 5. Charles A. Goodlad, Shetland Fishing Saga (Lerwick: The Shetland Times Ltd., 1971); Richard Smith, “Shetland in the World Economy: A Sociological History of the 18th and 19th Centuries,” Unpublished diss., University of Edinburgh, 1986. 6. Goodlad, Shetland Fishing Saga. 7. Ibid.

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8. Jakobsen, An Etymological Dictionary of the Norn Language. 9. Alan Coady, Scottish Ensemble: A bracing Seavaigers in Glasgow. Bachtrack (website). (2014). 10. Kate Mollesen, “Scottish Ensemble review – strings surging like a North Sea gale,” The Guardian (online edition), 4 May 2014. 11. James Angus, A Glossary of the Shetland Dialect (Paisley: Alexander Gardner, 1914). 12. Goodlad, Shetland Fishing Saga. 13. Graham, The Shetland Dictionary. 14. Alistair Christie-Johnson and Adaline Christie-Johnson, Shetland Words: A Dictionary of the Shetland Dialect (Lerwick: The Shetland Times Ltd., 2010). 15. Jessie Saxby (1842–1940) was a prolific writer who was born and brought up on the Island of Unst in Shetland. She returned to live in Unst in the late 1890s and her poem “Moder Dy” was probably first published in a local newspaper shortly after that. A newspaper cutting is contained in a scrapbook held by the Shetland Museum & Archives but its exact date and provenance are unknown. The poem was republished in John J. Graham and Laurence I. Graham, A Shetland Anthology (1998). As a child in Unst, and on her return there, Saxby would have had contact with haaf fishermen and presumably learned of the moder dy from them. 16. Shetland dialect terms used in the original have been translated. 17. Although Tom Garrison, Oceanography: An invitation to Marine Science (California: Brooks/Cole, Pacific Grove, 2002) has been cited in this Chapter, most oceanography textbooks will provide similar information. 18. William. R. Turrell, et al. “Hydrography of the East Shetland Basin in relation to decadal North Sea variability,” ICES Journal of Marine Science 53 (1996), 899916. 19. Ibid. 20. Garrison, Oceanography: An invitation. 21. e.g. Graham, The Shetland Dictionary. 22. Garrison Oceanography: An invitation. 23. Ibid. 24. UKHO, The Mariner’s Handbook (Taunton: Hydrographic Office, 2009). 25. Ibid. 26. Harold Gatty, Finding Your Way Without Map or Compass (Mineola, New York: Dover Publications, Inc, 1999). 27. Garrison Oceanography: An invitation. 28. Ibid. 29. Angus, A Glossary of the Shetland Dialect; Goodlad, Shetland Fishing Saga; Graham, The Shetland Dictionary; Christie-Johnson, Shetland Words. 30. Rob M. Kitchin, “Cognitive maps: What are they and why study them?” Journal of Environmental Psychology 14 (1994), 1-19. 31. Ben Ford, “Introduction,” The Archaeology of Maritime Landcapes, ed. Ben Ford (New York, USA: Springer, 2011), 18-26. 32. John E. Huth, The Lost Art of Finding Our Way (Cambridge, Massachusetts: The Balknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2013).

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33. Dirk H.R Spennemann, “Traditional Marshallese Stickchart Navigation,” in Essays on the Marshallese Past by Dirk H.R. Spennemann. Online Document, see http://marshall.csu.edu.au/Marshalls/html/essays/es-tmc-2.html. (1998). 34. Ibid.

CHAPTER NINE CROSSING TO THE OTHER SIDE: REPRESENTING THE JOURNEY OF LIFE IN NEOLITHIC SHETLAND SIMON CLARKE

Introduction Mavis Grind is an isthmus joining the Northmavine district of Shetland to the rest of Mainland (see Figure 9.1). As well as providing a landbridge, this narrow strip of land also separates an inlet of the Atlantic from Sullom Voe, an extension of the North Sea. Until World War II, boats were regularly taken across this portage to avoid a long and potentially dangerous diversion, to the north through Yell Sound, or south round Sumburgh Head (see Figure 9.2). This is the only place in Shetland where hauling a boat between the Atlantic and the North Sea is so easy and for practical reasons alone will have been an important focus in Neolithic Shetland’s social network. The location of British Neolithic monuments at important communication nodes is well attested, leading Noble to reason that such sites were not simply for the use of local communities but had a wider significance.1 In addition, it is likely that the act of portage will have had strong symbolic associations to prehistoric society. For example, Bradley has noted the association between the portage across the Kintyre peninsula and one of the most important concentrations of Bronze Age rock art in Scotland at Kilmartin, Argyll.2 Early prehistoric boats of the type capable of crossing the open sea to Shetland are very poorly known from archaeological survivals, none coming from Shetland itself. However, they must have existed as Shetland was colonised from 4000 BC at the latest.3 Logboats are thought impractical on the open sea, and would in any case have been difficult to construct using only stone blades. Most commentators envisage sea voyages in wooden framed, skin-covered vessels, similar to the historically known curragh of

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Ireland.4 In spite of the lack of direct evidence, boats were almost certainly much more central to life in the prehistoric than in modern society, for whom water separates rather than connects. Ditlev Mahler has speculated that Shetland’s early Neolithic population must have been low and, to have remained genetically viable, would have required sustained maritime contact with the outside world.5 The Neolithic was a society without the wheel, not introduced to Britain until the Bronze Age,6 and without roads. Shetland had almost none until the Meal Roads, built after 1847 by the Highland Relief Fund.7 Furthermore, Neolithic communities were highly fragmented, so that moving across the land of another group would have been fraught with social difficulty. Therefore, even where a land route existed, most long-distance journeys were undertaken by boats. Figure 9.1 Mavis Grind Isthmus from the Southwest. Sullom Voe / the North Sea are to the right, the sea loch leading to the Atlantic is to the left (copyright author).

That the Shetland landscape was intensively exploited during the late Neolithic and Bronze Age is witnessed by extensive remains of field boundaries, clearance cairns, indicating arable cultivation, as well as prehistoric farmstead and chambered tombs still readily identifiable as surface features. These include three late Bronze Age houses and a field system examined by Stephen Cracknell and Beverly Smith less than 300m

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east of the Isbister monuments.8 This landscape has survived due to the relative lack of intensive agriculture in more recent periods, the area having generally escaped enclosure and mechanised ploughing that destroyed comparable features across much of Scotland from the eighteenth century onwards.9 Today the area is given over to unimproved sheep pasture. Figure 9.2 Mavis Grind Location Map (copyright author).

The monuments that this Chapter will be focusing on are the Islesburgh tomb, house and D-shaped enclosure (see Figure 9.3). Examination elsewhere in Shetland has suggested that comparable complexes were engaged in a mixed agriculture of grain cultivation and livestock grazing, particularly sheep. The enclosures at the heart of such

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sites would have been capable of producing only a small proportion of the grain or livestock that a family would require, and must therefore have been just one element in a more extensive strategy of wild resource as well as agricultural exploitation.10 The Islesburgh landscape was investigated and published to a reasonable standard, in the mid-twentieth century,11 but has since escaped reinterpretation or serious theoretical consideration. The original study was very much focused on placing the structures within a typological framework, most fully formulated by Henshall,12 which would allow them to be understood within an overall Scottish prehistoric chronology. There was very little consideration of the monuments’ place within the landscape or attempt to understand the meanings that were encapsulated in the materiality of their design. This Chapter will redress that with an exploration of the bodily experience of the built and natural environment and the symbolic associations that might follow from that. Figure 9.3 Map of the Islesburgh Neolithic Landscape (copyright author).

Such an approach is often referred to as phenomenological,13 but the term is not really appropriate for a number of reasons. Strictly speaking, phenomenology is a philosophical method in which the researcher is engaged in investigating their own bodily experience. Archaeologists’ focus however is the past, and there will have been some significant changes to the environment in the last five or six thousand years. Secondly, all experience is inherently subjective; different people construe it in different ways. The archaeological investigator needs to think about

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how the built environment was perceived in the past, and by others, not just recount their own contemporary bodily experience of place with their minds disengaged. A better term for investigating the experience of others is phenomenography, a term developed by educationalists to consider the learning experience of others.14

Encountering the Neolithic Landscape at Islesburgh Shetland’s natural vegetation cover following the most recent Ice Age would have been a scrub woodland of birch, hazel and willow, but, by the late Neolithic, agricultural clearance and the introduction of grazing animals would have created a relatively treeless environment, not too dissimilar to the present.15 The most significant environmental difference would therefore have been in relative sea level and the location of the coastline. Shetland never had the depth of ice experienced by the Scottish mainland during the most recent Ice Age, and therefore has not experienced dramatic isostatic changes seen elsewhere in Scotland. Rather, there has been a general rise in relative sea level, as the North Sea basin has been pressed down by the additional weight of the post-glacial seas. The picture is complex with periods of fluctuation and considerable variation between different parts of Shetland. Recent work by Bondevik and others at nearby Bridge of Walls places sea level there 3500 BP at 2m below present.16 Together with coastal erosion, this probably means that the open passage to the Atlantic was closed when the Islesburgh monuments were created, and what is now a sea loch would have been a fresh water lake. This difference in the landscape can be viewed very much as the Neolithic people saw it and intended it to be viewed. Changes in woodland cover between now and the Neolithic do not invalidate considerations of viewsheds as they do in many other British contexts (see, for example, Fleming’s 1999 analysis of the excesses of phenomenology).17 Conventional scientific methodologies have tended to represent archaeological landscapes as a scaled plan view, often supplemented by aerial views.18 Accurate recording and objective representation are obviously perfectly reasonable objectives. However, to get inside the Neolithic mindset and understand something of their experience and the ideas they were trying to express, it is also appropriate to consider the viewsheds available to a person on foot. It has been suggested that viewsheds from Shetland’s farmsteads strongly imply the importance of marine resources to Neolithic subsistence.19 Figure 9.4 shows the panoramic view of the Islesburgh landscape from the south. The Minn and

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Atlantic are to the left (the west), Sullom Voe to the right (the east). It is the experience of this landscape and its meaning to the people of the late Neolithic / early Bronze Age that this Chapter will be exploring. Figure 9.4 Panoramic View of the Islesburgh Neolithic Landscape and Mavis Grind from the South (copyright author).

Similarities between the Tomb and Enclosure Though different in scale by an order of magnitude, the enclosure and tomb exhibit strong similarities of form and orientation; both faced the south-south-east and were D-shaped or heel-shaped in plan (see Figure 9.5, a and b). The concave tomb façade is similar to the shape of the loch shore within the enclosure. The kerb to the rear of the tomb is the same shape as the enclosure dyke. The position of the tomb’s chamber is analogous to that of the prehistoric house within the enclosure, now overlain by a planticrub “a small circular dry-stone enclosure for growing cabbage”. Whether the tomb consciously followed the design of the enclosure or vice versa, it is unlikely that these similarities were accidental. Closer examination of the make-up of the tomb appears to confirm that it was intended as a metaphor for the farmed landscape (see Figure 9.6, a and b). The kerb, like the enclosure dyke, is made up of large angular blocks, many of which will have been quarried from the nearby rocky outcrops. In contrast, the rubble make-up between the kerb and chamber is almost identical in size and character to the material in the local prehistoric clearance cairns, fist-sized pieces of fieldstone collected from the cultivated enclosure interior. The choice of these materials is not merely coincidental. Commenting on the early Bronze Age barrow C37 at Towthorpe in East Yorkshire, Joanne Brück has suggested that three different construction materials from locations up to one km from the site were symbolically significant, in that case perhaps of kinship relationship between the dead and mourners from the quarry locations.20

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Figure 9.5 (a and b): Tomb and Enclosure Compared, Viiews from the Southwest. S nd orientation bbut also the rocck quarried Note the simiilarity not only of the shape an from the hillsside outcrops (ccopyright authorr).

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a Rear Viewss of Islesburgh Tomb, from th he SSE and Figure 9.6 (a and b): Front and NNW Respeectively. Note image (a) is a slightly di storted panoraamic view (copyright auuthor).

Relationsship betweeen the Builtt and Naturral Environ nments There allso seem to be strong sim milarities bettween the nattural and cultural landdscapes. From m the interiorr of the encloosure, the surrrounding dyke appearrs most massivve on the sidees where the ennclosing topo ography is rocky outcroops. In contraast on the wesst, the surrounnding hills aree grassier and roundedd and the dykke is more off a turf bank,, the stonework out of

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sight in the gully of a stream (see Figure 9.7). Both Colin Richards and Richard Bradley have made similar suggestions that Neolithic monuments were inspired by, or representations of, the natural world beyond. In southǦwest England, Bradley has suggested that megalithic tombs may have been built to imitate rocky outcrops; possibly they were identified as ruined tombs surviving from the ancestral past.21 Richards suggested that the concentric ditch and bank of the henge at Ring of Brodgar in Orkney was built in imitation of the Lochs of Harry and Stenness, which almost completely surrounded the site and the ring of low hills beyond.22 Chris Fowler and Vicki Cummings have suggested there is a strong association between the sea and megalithic tombs throughout western Britain and that metaphorical associations between stone and water are mobilized in transformative practices that punctuated an individual’s life and death.23 Figure 9.7 Enclosing Hills and D-shaped Enclosure Compared. Note the rocky nature of the enclosure dyke to the east compared to the west where the stonework is concealed from this angle by its location in the stream gully, acting as a haha. The prehistoric house underlies the relatively modern planticrub in the centre of the enclosure (copyright author).

Tombs and the landscapes associated with them have been shown in Shetland to have been modified repeatedly over extended periods.24 Intended meanings will have changed and, of course, are almost always ambiguous, varying not only with time, but between different groups within society. However, identifying the intended approach route to a monumental structure can usually be reasoned with greater certainty.

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Though small, the Islesburgh tomb is necessarily a monumental structure, intended to be seen and to impress. Its location therefore is at first sight rather curious. Close to the loch shore, and with its most prominent feature, its façade, facing the water, it is actually quite a difficult monument to find as a visitor from the landward side. It is difficult to photograph from its frontal side - Figure 9.6 (a) is a composite panoramic view. It seems most probable therefore that any ceremonial approach to the tomb was intended to be by boat. Neolithic passage graves are normally thought of as community tombs, their permanent access-ways facilitating ongoing use over an extended period.25 However, as is demonstrated clearly in Figure 9.8, the plinth within the chamber can comfortably accommodate only a single ancestor at a time. If this was to be used repeatedly, this must have been a “passage” grave in more ways than one – just one stop in the funerary journey of the deceased, departure making space for new interments. Figure 9.8 Chamber of the Passage Grave (copyright author).

The tomb’s location is also potentially significant in the viewshed it offers. The view from the tomb provides no line-of-sight over Mavis Grind to the waters of Sullom Voe (see Figure 9.9). This is particularly surprising as a view would have been available a few tens of metres to the north, up the hill slope. If Islesburgh tomb is situated to form part of a

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funeral journey by boat from east to west, this restriction on visibility is surely significant. Figure 9.9 View from Islesburgh Tomb: ESE to Sullom Voe (copyright author).

The view to the Atlantic west from the tomb is much clearer (see Figure 9.10). Breakers from the Atlantic are visible in this shot. Even with lower sea level and a less eroded landscape it is likely that the waters of the ocean would have been visible. The view from the Neolithic house and the north-western quadrant of the D-shaped enclosure, sixty metres west, reverses this pattern of visibility and occlusion. The view to Sullom Voe over Mavis Grind is unobstructed (see Figure 9.11), due to the house’s slightly more elevated location. However, this site in turn lacked a clear view south west to the Minn and the Atlantic, blocked by the hill in the foreground (see Figure 9.12).

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Figure 9.10 View from Islesburgh Tomb: SW to the Minn (copyright author).

Figure 9.11 View over Islesburgh Farmstead: ESE to the Minn (copyright author).

A summary of these contrasting views is provided by Figure 9.13. The exact locations of the house and tomb are critical to the views they afford. Relatively small changes in position would have had a significant impact on their viewsheds. The house had views to the east, but not the west. The tomb had the opposite, views to the west, but not the east. It is not a huge leap of imagination to associate east and west with birth and death respectively: to the east, Sullom Voe and the North Sea, the direction of

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sunrise, traditionally associated with birth; to the west, the Minn and the Atlantic, the direction of sunset, traditionally associated with death. Figure 9.12 View from Islesburgh Farmstead: SSW to the Minn (copyright author).

Figure 9.13 House and Tomb Sight Lines to the Sea. Light lines indicate a clear line of sight to the waters, dark lines that the line of sight is obstructed by the topography (copyright author).

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Conclusions In conclusion, the natural and cultural landscapes at Mavis Grind / Islesburgh are linked by powerful visual metaphors. The dike that defines the D-shaped enclosure seems to reflect the character of the surrounding natural topography and, with the house at its centre, has the same shape and orientation as the heel-shaped tomb. Locations for house and tomb have been chosen to provide and deny views to the Atlantic and the North Sea. The two bodies of ocean with a narrow strip of land and freshwater between them would have been an important line of communication in the Neolithic, but it probably had equally important symbolic meaning, evoking the journey from birth, through life, to death.

Notes 1. Gordon Noble, Neolithic Scotland; Timber, Stone, Earth and Fire (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2006), 189-92. 2. Richard Bradley, “Rock Art and the Perception of Landscape,” Cambridge Archaeological Journal, Volume 1, Issue 1, (1991), 77-101. 3. Nigel D. Melton, “Shells, Seals and Ceramics: An Evaluation of the Midden at West Voe, Sumburgh, Shetland 2004-5,” Mesolithic Horizon: Papers Presented at the Seventh International Conference on the Mesolithic in Europe, Volume 1, eds. Sinead McCartan, et al., (Belfast, 2005), 184 – 189. 4. See Paul Johnstone, The Sea-Craft of Prehistory, Second Edition (New York: Routledge, 1988). 5. Ditlev L. Mahler, “Neolithic Shetland: Peopling an empty area 4000-3000 BC?” In The Border of Farming and Cultural Markers (Copenhagen: National Museum of Denmark, 2012), 139. 6. David W. Anthony, The Horse, the Wheel, and Language: How Bronze-Age Riders from the Eurasian Steppes Shaped the Modern World (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2007). 7. James R. Coull, “The Shaping of Shetland: An Archipelago's Landscape,” History Landscapes, Volume 4, Issue 2 (2003), 67-91. 8. Stephen Cracknell, and Beverley Smith, “Archaeological Investigations at Mavis Grind, Shetland,” in Glasgow Archaeological Journal, Volume 10, (1983), 13-39. 9. Val Turner, ed. The Shaping of Shetland: Developments in Shetland landscape archaeology (Lerwick: Shetland Times, 1998). 10. Val Turner, “Living off the Land?” In The Border of Farming Shetland and Scandinavia Copenhagen, ed. Ditlev L, Mahler, (Denmark: National Museum of Denmark, 2013), 32. 11. Thomas H. Bryce, “The So-called Heel-Shaped Cairns of Scotland, with Remarks on the Chambered Tombs of Orkney and Shetland,” Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, Volume 74, (1940), 23 -36; Charles Calder,

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“Cairns, Neolithic Houses and Burnt Mounds in Shetland,” Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, Volume 96, (1964), 37 – 86. 12. Audrey S. Henshall, The Chambered Tombs of Scotland (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1972). 13. See Joanna Brück, “Experiencing the past? The development of a phenomenological archaeology in British prehistory,” Archaeological Dialogues, Volume 12, Issue 01, (2005), 45-72. 14. Ference Marton, “Phenomenography - A research approach investigating different understandings of reality,” Journal of Thought, Volume 21, Issue 2, (1986), 28-49. 15. Richard Tipping, “The form and fate of Scotland's woodlands,” Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, Volume 124, (1994), 1-54. 16. Stein Bondevik, et al. “Evidence for three North Sea tsunamis at the Shetland Islands between 8000 and 1500 years ago,” Quaternary Science Reviews, Volume 24, Issues 14–15, (2005), 1757–1775. 17. Andrew Fleming, “Phenomenology and the Megaliths of Wales: a Dreaming Too Far?” Oxford Journal of Archaeology, Volume 18, Issue 2, (1999), 119–125. 18. See Alasdair Whittle, et al., eds. Scord of Brouster: an early agricultural settlement on Shetland: excavations, 1977-1979 (Oxford: Oxford University Committee for Archaeology, 1986). 19. Turner, “Living off the Land?”, 30. 20. Brück “Experiencing the past?”, 321. 21. Richard Bradley, “Ruined buildings, ruined stones: Enclosures, tombs and natural places in the Neolithic of southǦwest England,” World Archaeology Volume 30, Issue 1, (1998),13-22. 22. Colin Richards, “Monuments as landscape: Creating the centre of the world in late Neolithic Orkney,” World Archaeology, Volume 28, Issue 2, (1996), 190-208. 23. Chris Fowler, and Vicki Cummings, “Places of Transformation: Building Monuments from Water and Stone in the Neolithic of the Irish Sea,” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, New Series, Volume 9, (2003), 1-20. 24. Audrey S. Henshall, The Chambered Tombs of Scotland, (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1963), 141-3; Flemming Kaul, “Multi-period Construction of Megalithic Tombs – and the Tombs of Shetland,” in The Border of Farming and Cultural Markers, ed. Ditlev L. Mahler, (Copenhagen: National Museum of Denmark, 2012), 113-116. 25. See Julian Thomas, “Death, identity and the body in Neolithic Britain,” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, Volume 6, Issue 4, (2000), 653– 668.

CHAPTER TEN “CAST YOUR LIGHT UPON THE WATER”: THE LEGACY OF THE LIGHTHOUSES AS LOCATIONS FOR CULTURAL ILLUMINATION ANGELA A. WATT

Introduction In the past decade, there has been a renaissance of interest in lighthouses, particularly within the British Isles. New publications have emerged in the biographical style, in a field that was, until very recently, an interest in the antiquity of maritime history, architecture, or archaeology. The historiography of writing about lighthouses has undergone various transformations over time, influenced by literary stylistic conventions, romanticised reflections and imaginings, and woven into popular culture narratives. It is appropriate to consider this interest in lighthouses as a “renaissance” because it marks a new beginning, the end of an era for a specific occupational identity, and the development of a new accessibility and public relationship with lighthouses. In the early 1960s, the Northern Lighthouse Board (NLB) began a process that would result in the automation of all Scottish lighthouses by 31st March, 1998. There followed a period of drastic institutional and organisational change, with the gradual displacement of lighthouse keepers and their families, and other auxiliary staff. As navigational aids, the function of lighthouses was supplemented with satellite technologies to enhance their effectiveness, whilst supplanting the human element of lived experience and occupational identity. This Chapter explores the increasing fascination with the lore and lure of lighthouses as historical landmarks of maritime heritage. Situated at the frontier of island and coastal life, lighthouses maintain a unique, and at times dangerous, relationship between “civilisation” and the sea. The dichotomy of their locality has contributed specific threads of cultural and historical narrative, promulgating a

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particularly idealised and romantic image. Fifteen years post-automation, lighthouses continue to illuminate and enhance our shores.

Brief Historical Overview Douglas Hague and Rosemary Christie remarked in 1975 that: Lighthouses as a subject have inspired writers in English to take up their pens on an average of once every seven years since Smeaton’s account of the Eddystone in 1792. A lighthouse [they said] is a symbol of man’s good intentions and good deeds and it is right and understandable that most writers have stressed the all but superhuman feats of their construction and manning.1

Indeed, almost one hundred years after Smeaton wrote his account of Eddystone, and almost one hundred years before Hague and Christie, Alexander Findlay, writing in 1877, was “eager to bring before the sailor’s notice the many beautiful adaptations of refined science in operation in lighthouses...”.2 Findlay believed that, through an understanding of the construction of lighthouses, sailors might be better equipped to identify their accurate location. Perhaps of more significance within this body of literature is the emphasis on the historical relationship that lighthouses have shared with maritime trade routes. Hague and Christie suggest that “lighthouses have from the beginning been a corollary of maritime trade”.3 Findlay remarked that: Wherever civilisation and commerce have spread, there has the engineer marked its advance by these evidences of his skill; and it seems more than probable that in the course of a very few years, all the prominent points of the world, interesting to the navigator, wherever his commercial pursuits lead him, will be indicated by day and night by these guardian monitors; while the whole West of Europe is now so well lighted as to very nearly approach perfection.4

Whilst I do not intend to provide an exhaustive archaeological argument for the provenance or origin of lighthouses,5 it is worth mentioning that many seafaring traditions, even in the British Isles, allude to ancient landmarks with flares or bonfires on high ground at night: Although the first lighthouse of which written record exists was that at Alexandria, the famous pharos of the third century BC from which the very word for lighthouse was derived, it does not mean there were no earlier ones. It is unlikely that a building so magnificent and so successful in its

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Considered within a global context, the presence of flares, bonfires and beacons indicates or implies the importance of the sea as a maritime highway, facilitating the connection of islands, people and places. The history of lighthouses in the Northern Islands of Scotland, and indeed the British Isles, has therefore been considerably shaped by historical influences and trends originating from outside these native shores. The Romans are attributed with developing a series of beacons along the English coast, high on the cliff tops. After the Romans left Britain, lights were located in church belfries. This idea was also “borrowed” by enterprising individuals known as “wreckers”, who were known to set “false lights” in dangerous places to lure sailors to their peril and to claim the cargo for themselves. This is significant because it demonstrates the importance of the increasing need to make the coastal region a safer place to navigate, both in terms of natural threats and from human misadventure.

Northern Lighthouse Board In 1786 an Act of Parliament authorised the building of four lighthouses around Scotland’s coast and established a Commission, now the NLB, set up as a regulatory body in Scotland to oversee their building and administration. The NLB is now responsible for over two hundred lighthouses. An Act of Parliament in 1836 brought lighthouses in England and Wales under the jurisdiction of Trinity House. Although these are different institutions, both share a communal affiliation to the Department of Trade. The Isle of Man was brought within the Board’s jurisdiction in 1815. Whilst historical works allude to various forms of light sources, in the eighteenth century Dr Samuel Johnson described a lighthouse as “a high building at the top of which lights are hung to guide ships”.7 This particular style of building became a reference point for the mariner: each light was appropriately designed in accord with its environment and engineered to project a particular colour or timed rhythm of light, which an educated sailor could use to identify the lighthouse and thereby pinpoint his location. For example, historically, at least up until the late 1980s, the “character” of Bressay Lighthouse in Shetland was as follows:

The Legacy of Lighthouses as Locations for Cultural Illumination Light Established: Engineers: Position:

Character: Elevation: Candlepower: Nominal Range: Structure: Fog Siren:

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1858 David and Thomas Stevenson Latitude 60° 07.2’ N Longitude 01° 07.2’ W An island station situated 2 miles SE of Lerwick, Shetland Flashing (2) White every 30 secs 32 metres 190,000 21 miles White tower 16 metres high 2 blasts every 90 seconds

Narrative Representations: the Symbolism of Lighthouses The functionality of lighthouses, as a guiding source, is an idea which has frequently been adopted as a symbol in art, literature and popular culture. In an article for Country Life magazine, Richard Cannon said: Everyone loves a lighthouse. On a sunny day, they’re jaunty structures, as evocative of happy summer times as shrimping nets and sandcastles, but when the sea is whipped to a frenzy by howling winds, they stand as a symbol of steadfastness and vigilance, safety and salvation.8

This perception of lighthouses as a location of safety is explored and promulgated through a variety of popular narrative forms, particularly in children’s stories, films and music. In terms of shared narrative structures that contribute to representations of lighthouses for children, “The Lighthouse Keeper” series by Ronda Armitage (first written in 1977) follows the exploits of the Keeper and his wife, their cat, and the daily chores and activities at the lighthouse.9 In the 1980s, a children’s television series called “Fraggle Rock” (1983 to 1987), was based on the idea that little creatures known as Fraggles, Doozers and Gorgs lived in an underground civilisation beneath a lighthouse. Although the programme cast a Scottish actor, Fulton McKay, as the lonely middleaged lighthouse keeper “Doc”, the show was created by the Jim Henson Company and produced by the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation (CBC). All of the other characters, including his dog “Sprocket”, were puppets. The location and the symbolism of lighthouses have frequently been referenced in works of fiction to convey a sense of adventure or romance: for example, Virginia Woolf’s “To the Lighthouse” (1927);10 Christine Marion Fraser’s “Kinvara” series (1998-2001);11 Alan Titchmarsh’s “The

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Last Lighthouse Keeper” (1999).12 Yet the location of lighthouses has also been the setting for supernatural thrillers, such as John Carpenter’s American film “The Fog” (1980), seeming to take inspiration from history and folklore, such as the Flannan Isles mystery, where the disappearance of three lighthouse keepers in 1900 was never solved. In William Heineson’s book, “The Tower at the Edge of the World” (1976),13 the title provides an abstract reference to a lighthouse in the Faroe Islands, with the imagery of a liminal and mysterious location. The opening lines echo the account from the Biblical Book of Genesis, and the creation of the world: At that time when the Earth was not yet round, but had a beginning and an end, a mighty tower stood at the edge of the world…On clear evenings the beautiful light from the tower could be seen sparkling out there in the darkness of the sea, and you could be overcome by an irresistible longing for the shining tower, which stood there so lonely against the great unknown tracts where the world ends and begins and where the spirit of God hovers over the water.14

The symbolism of a tower, or of an “eye” that pierces the darkness, is an image that was powerfully brought to life in Peter Jackson’s movie trilogy of J. R. R. Tolkien’s “The Lord of the Rings” (2001-2003).15 In the first instalment of the trilogy, “The Fellowship of the Ring”, the essence of the dark lord Sauron is manifested in a high tower with a lidless eye, wreathed in flame. The similarity to the physical description of a lighthouse is suggestive of a maritime socio-cultural marker, albeit in the guise of a rather more sinister character, transforming the tower and light - usually a force for good intent - into a conscious and maleficent entity. However, Tolkien’s Middle Earth also utilises lit beacons as a form of communication along a mountain range - vividly brought to life in Jackson’s “Return of the King” (2003). It is possible that this allegory, blending both form and function, is a remnant of a mythical narrative source, as Findlay suggests: Whether Lighthouses, as now understood, were used in the early periods of history is almost more than doubtful, although there are many allusions in the mystical writings of the ancients to such existing, and conjectures have been formed that Homer has mentioned them. Vague hypothesis has also made the single-eyed Cyclopes into Lighthouses; or even, in a figurative manner, Lighthouses themselves.16

The location of the lighthouse is as significant as its form and arguably as central a character within worlds both real and imagined. In the short

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novel, “The Lighthouse”, by Alison Moore (2012),17 the main character has a small silver perfume bottle in the shape of a lighthouse, but it is a symbol that represents the loneliness and darkness of his life. This aspect of loneliness and isolation is depicted in the film “Blessed” (2008), featuring the Irish actor James Nesbitt. It is the story of a man who actively seeks isolation and loneliness and decides to become a lighthouse keeper to try to escape the painful memories of a family tragedy. In the original British film “Day of the Triffids” (1962), based on a science fiction book by John Wyndham, the protagonist is a lighthouse keeper who discovers that the invading alien creatures are susceptible to saltwater. The film conveys the perceived isolation of a rock station in a number of ways, such as lack of communication or immediate help from the mainland; the inability to escape from a small island; the confinement of close living quarters; and the finite number of resources brought over from the mainland. The irony of the narrative is that saltwater is an abundant resource at the lighthouse, but it is only used after all other means of defence have been exhausted. However, this type of confined setting in television comedy series such as The Goodies’ “LighthouseKeeping Loonies” (BBC, 1975), or Chewin’ the Fat’s Scottish lighthouse characters Duncan and Malcolm (BBC, 1999-2006), has also been a source of amusement, exaggerating the social behaviours and differences in personality amongst a small group of men living together for weeks at a time. The relationship between Duncan and Malcolm becomes increasingly strained due to pranks and mischief, resulting in the inevitable closing line of “Gonnae No Dae That”. Within artwork, such as Shetland artist Jim Tait’s painting of “Bressay Light” (see Figure 10.1), the lighthouse is symbolic of the last point of contact of leaving the island, or the first point of contact on approaching landfall. The significance of the landmark changes according to the perspective of the individual. The song “Lighthouse” (1995) by Scottish band Runrig, extends this metaphor further. It incorporates the imagery of a lighthouse as a fixed marker providing hope, suggesting that it is an antidote to dark moments of the mind as well as the physical environment: There's a lighthouse, Shining in the dark, A lighthouse, Standing in the dark, All the world's a ship, Shipwrecked on the seas, Breaking up in pieces, We're clinging to the reef, There's a lighthouse. (From the Album “Mara”)

These examples – some from within Scotland, some from the international stage – form a collective narrative of lighthouses that ultimately contributes

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to how theese structuress are perceiv ved and preseented, and why w their imagery enddures in the puublic consciou usness. Bressay Lighthoouse, Painting by b Jim Tait, 20114 (copyright au uthor). Figure 10.1 B

Life at the Lighthouse L There arre two main types of ligh hthouse in Sccotland: thosee built on small outcroops of rock ouut in the sea, known ratherr appropriately y as rock stations, andd those built on o the mainlan nd. The accom mmodation was tied as part of the keeper’s sallary; though there are maany representtations of keepers livinng in the lightthouse itself, the t reality is tthat most of th he houses were separaate from the acctual tower. The T occupatioon of lighthouse keeper was primarilly a male careeer, though theere have beenn a few exceptiions. Stations featured numeerous differen nt areas of occuupational and domestic endeavours; for example, in addition to t looking afteer the obligattory light, there would be an engine room for pum mping the fog horn, a radio room for communicattions, a worksshop for carpeentry and repaairs, a laundry y room or washhouse w with a clothes ringer, wateer tanks for coooling the engines, air tanks storingg compressedd air for a fogh horn, a fog tow wer, aerials, a flagpole and variouss sheds or garages. g Very y occasionallyy there migh ht be an overgrown vvegetable patcch or garden.

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The number of keepers varied according to the type of station. For example, at a mainland station there would usually be two residing Assistant Lighthouse Keepers (ALKs) and one Principal Lighthouse Keeper (PLK). In addition, there would be ancillary staff, Local Assistant Lightkeepers. This was slightly different on a rock station because of the nature of the location and the patterns of shift work. Working at a rock station was usually for a month at a time, with the benefit of going home for four weeks off. There was always a keeper in attendance twenty-four hours a day at the station, on average working four hours on shift, eight hours off, but the keeper could be called out at any time to provide assistance. The shifts covered specific times: 10 pm to 2 am, 2 am to 6 am, 6 am to 12 pm, 12 pm to 6 pm, and 6 pm to 10 pm. The work duties of the keeper varied depending on the type of station. Winding up the light was undertaken from every twenty minutes up to one hour or more, depending on the station, the height of tower and the speed of the lens. During the day, a curtain was pulled around the lens to keep out the heat of the sun, to avoid reflection and to stop the lens from magnifying on the glass. The station was painted annually, including all the buildings and external walls. Duties on a rock station also involved making meals and washing up; becoming a lighthouse keeper taught men lifelong skills of domesticity and self-sufficiency (see Figure 10.2). One of the primary duties of a keeper was to keep a check on the weather, making regular and highly detailed reports to the Meteorological Office, from between once every hour, to once every three hours. The main form of communication was a VHF link through the telephone system, and a radio transmitter, the same as used on ships, with which they could also call the coastguard if needed. On New Year’s night in 1992, the wind was so severe at Muckle Flugga lighthouse in Shetland that it went off the scale and could not be accurately recorded. Communication with the keepers was lost for two days as damage had been done to aerials at Saxaford in Unst. The families of the keepers were extremely concerned for their safety, and being unable initially to raise them by telephone did nothing to allay their fears. Stations could be dangerous places, even in calm weather, but the risks were substantially raised when the wind and waves even washed over the height of the tower. However, at Muckle Flugga the accommodation block was connected by a series of linked buildings at the base of the tower. The Northern Lighthouse Board was highly regulated with a code of conduct and rules. Stations were visited regularly by Commissioners who came to inspect the station and make sure that it was being kept in an orderly state, both in terms of the station itself and in terms of the

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domestic dwellings – a good reason to tidy up and throw everything in a cupboard. But it was also an opportunity for keepers and their wives and children to be reminded that this was a job with a great deal of responsibility, providing an essential service to mariners. Lighthouse stations developed a particular dynamic amongst the residents, almost like a small family or extended community. As Keith Allardyce reflects: “...with the light keeping came the lasting friendships which can develop amongst lighthouse families”.18 Though keepers and families were usually welcomed into the wider community, the knowledge of it being a temporary home meant that some individuals found it difficult to fully integrate. Keepers were expected to shift between stations when re-allocated by Headquarters in Edinburgh, moving every four to five years, sometimes earlier. This could make it difficult for lighthouse children, having to continuously adapt to new environments, especially if having to enrol at a new school, leaving friends behind and having to start all over again. This lifestyle instilled a transient identity into lighthouse children, with some individuals still unsure as to where they owe their cultural allegiance (see Figure 10.3). In many ways, this is similar to the experiences of army children, or the children of Christian missionaries. Although the stations were usually closed to the public, primarily for health and safety reasons, in the summer of 1985, Peggy King wrote an article for the Northern Lighthouse Journal: We were shown [a]round, with the tremendous pride that I discovered is inherent in all lighthouse keepers, and this pride extends to the keepers’ wives. The Light is the dominant feature in all your lives, one can say it regulates your everyday existence. Forgive the pun, but everything revolves around the light. It is a way of life, and sadly this is gradually being eroded by automation, just as the cliffs are being eroded by the tides, but much faster.19

Fair Isle South, Shetland, was the last lighthouse in Scotland to be automated in 1998. This occasion was attended by the Princess Royal, the Patron of the Northern Lighthouse Board. Reflecting on the closing ceremony, Mike Grundon, a Shetland journalist writing for The Shetland Times newspaper commented: The real and lasting image should...be the last keeper closing the catch on his suitcase, locking the door on the silence of the accommodation block behind him, and walking for the last time down the path.20

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Figure 10.2 Ron Birnie at Muckle Flugg ga Lighthouse (copyright Waatt family, permission grranted).

Figure 10.3 C Children at Fairr Isle South Lig ghthouse, c19755 (copyright Watt W family, permission grranted).

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Experience and Interpretation The working experience of lighthouses as they were under the NLB is increasingly an endangered social memory. After the automation of lights, the keepers’ cottages were sold to private owners; some of them, such as those at Bressay Lighthouse, have been transformed into holiday homes. Yet, despite their maritime location, this could never provide the same experience as when they were lived in by keepers and their families. The ideals and responsibilities of being a keeper, the duties involved, the sense of loyalty - all of this created a particular lighthouse culture that cannot be fully replicated. The Lighthouse Museum at Kinaird Head in Fraserburgh, Scotland and new interpretative centres such as at Sumburgh Head in Shetland (see Figure 10.4), are providing people with a level of accessibility that was not possible before automation. But it is arguable that they are now a necessary requirement in illuminating this aspect of our coastal heritage through experiential learning. A new form of heritage tourism, known as “lighthouse bagging” has been developed, described by Joy Adcock in her book, “Lighthouse Accommodation”.21 Visiting as many lighthouses as possible has become as popular a milestone as “bagging” the Cuillins, or walking the Great Glen in Scotland. The Patron of the Northern Lighthouse Board, Princess Anne, is a prolific lighthouse “bagger”. In 2014, Princess Anne was invited to officially open the newly refurbished Sumburgh Head Lighthouse Interpretative Centre (see Figure 10.5). It has also been recognised through a project at Edinburgh University that the social history of the last generation of lighthouse keepers must be recorded now. The last Principal Keeper at Fair Isle, Angus Hutchison, died in 2013. It is a sad reminder that, should we wish to preserve this maritime heritage, there is but a small window of opportunity. It is also a chance to interpret a vast collection of images, stored in family albums. The legacy of lighthouses extends further. In 2010, Professor Alastair Dawson, from the Institute for Coastal Science and Management at Aberdeen University, observed that much could be learned about changing weather patterns by studying lighthouse keepers’ logs.22 His proposal suggests that these detailed logs are a hidden and untapped source of information that could be used for statistical and observational analysis relating to climate change. Although technology has replaced the occupational necessity of keepers, the utility of their endeavours may yet live on.

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Figure 10.4 Old Keeper’ss Cottage Red designed. Sumbburgh Head Lighthouse L Interpretativee Centre (copyriight author).

Figure 10.5 O Official openinng of the Sumb burgh Head Intterpretative Cen ntre, 2014 (copyright auuthor).

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Conclusion - Illuminating Culture In the thirty-nine years since Hague and Christie remarked that the subject of lighthouses has been written about on average once every seven years since 1792,23 there have been extreme and lasting changes to the world of lighthouses, especially in Scotland and across the Scottish Isles. The focus has shifted from documenting the scientific marvels of engineering and construction in dangerous places and from fascination with the beauty and ingenuity of dioptric lenses, to the illumination of human experience. The science of pharology has been enhanced by the narratives of those who worked, maintained and lived within these structures. Life has returned to the lighthouse stations, but it is markedly different from the experiences of the keepers and their wives and families. It is difficult to provide a definitive explanation as to why people are so fascinated by lighthouses. There is undoubtedly a greater degree of public engagement with lighthouses since their automation, but historical literary references and popular culture narratives illustrate a deeply rooted awareness of the lighthouse as a metaphor. As material objects, they provide the means for a particular function, but it is arguably their duality of character that creates a sense of allure; they are simultaneously symbols of life and of danger. This dichotomous relationship is thereby both exciting and reassuring, because they remain locations of mystery, with potential for adventure. As we have seen, the symbolism of lighthouses is deeply entrenched in cultural narratives; their physical structures are a constant reminder of island life shaped by the sea, whilst the poetics of their metaphorical form bring hope and inspiration to many, both on land and sea. Fifteen years after automation, lighthouses continue to illuminate and enhance our shores, reminding us to keep our feet on terra firma, but also to keep an ever-watchful eye on the horizon.

Notes 1. Douglas Hague, and Rosemary Christie, Lighthouses: Their Architecture, History and Archaeology (Dyfed: J.D. Lewis & Sons Limited, 1975), xiii. 2. Alexander Findlay, Lighthouses of the World, Seventeenth Edition (London: Richard Holmes Laurie, 1877), 1. 3. Hague and Christie, Lighthouses, xiii. 4. Findlay, Lighthouses of the World, 1. 5. See Bella Bathurst, Lighthouse Stevensons (London: Harper Collins, 1999). 6. Hague and Christie, Lighthouses, xiii. 7. Ibid., xiii. 8. Richard Cannon, “Lighthouses,” Country Life, (August 14th, 2013).

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9. Ronda Armitage, and David Armitage, The Lighthouse Keeper’s Lunch (London: Scholastic Children’s Books, 2007). 10. Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse (Hertfordshire: Wordsworth Editions Limited, 1994). 11. Christine Marion Fraser, Kinvara (London: Hodder & Stoughton Ltd, 1998). 12. Alan Titchmarsh, The Last Lighthouse Keeper (London: Simon & Schuster Ltd, 1999). 13. William Heineson, Tower at the Edge of the World (English Translation, Moray: The Thule Press, 1981). 14. Ibid., 9. 15. J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (London: Harper Collins Publishers, 1954). 16. Findlay, Lighthouses of the World, 1 17. Alison Moore, The Lighthouse (Cromer: Salt Publishing, 2012). 18. Keith Allardyce, Scotland’s Edge Revisited (Glasgow: Harper Collins, 1998), 106. 19. Peggy King, “The world of the lighthouse and its keepers as seen by an outsider,” in Northern Lighthouse Board Journal, Summer 1985 (Edinburgh: Northern Lighthouse Board 1985), 37. 20. Northern Lighthouse Board Journal (Summer 1998). 21. Joy Adcock, Lighthouse Accommodation Britain and Worldwide, Fifth Edition (Hatherley: Joy Adcock, 2012). 22. BBC TV News, 12th April, 2010. 23. Hague and Christie, Lighthouses, xiii.

CHAPTER ELEVEN IN ABOOT DA NIGHT WI DA ERASMUSONS: ONE FAMILY’S BELIEFS AND LORE JENNY MURRAY

Fir dey believed in fishy knots an lucky cappie-stanes firbye: An dey wid lay on aamoses fir some göd thing ta come dir wye. Dey strave fir göd, baith een an aa, An tried ta keep da ill awa. From Fower-Laefed Clover by Vagaland1

Since the coming of the North Sea oil to our shores in the 1970s and the advancement of technology, much has changed within Shetland society. Crofting and fishing are no longer the mainstay of the Islands’ economy, and with their decline the Islands have witnessed a significant change to the subsistence way of life, a traditional relationship between the people and their natural environment that has sustained life in Shetland over millennia. Deeply rooted within these ancient seasonal rhythms of life is a vocabulary of wisdom, customs and rituals that were passionately adhered to, essential for the safekeeping of the folk who used them. The waning of traditional life saw the inevitable decrease in language associated with crofting and fishing: these are lexicons now, housed in dictionaries instead of the byres and barns. Maturing generations may hold dear the lore of their forefathers, but it appears the younger generation, who are becoming far removed from da auld wyes, have little need for such language and superstition. Likewise, the hold of the Kirk has seen its grip weaken as advances in science offer alternative philosophies, changing the dynamics of life’s moral codes. This Chapter will investigate some of the old customs and beliefs surrounding the crofting and fishing life in the Shetland Isles during the

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nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Many of these traditions have been recorded in the past.2 The purpose of this research was to identify and record any decrease in the usage and need for such practices. Through the voices of the Erasmuson family (see Figure 11.1), it will consider if these traditional beliefs have been diluted with the changes in society over recent years, especially since the 1950s. An oral testimony can give a deep insight into the history of the people involved and so, to encourage a relaxed atmosphere, the interviews were conducted in an unstructured manner, allowing the conversation to flow naturally. The interviewees were encouraged to speak in their own Shetland dialect, as the author had found, while doing previous research, that people were much more relaxed while talking in their natural tongue.

Sabbath Prohibitions Born in 1928, Mrs Erasmuson was brought up in the fold of a crofting community on the west side of Shetland. Their house, Kirkhouse in Twatt, was adjacent to the village Kirk, ensuring a low profile was kept on the Sabbath. Mrs Erasmuson explained no crofting work was done on Sundays: … da Sunday thing was faithfully keepit - no dat dae wir dat religious but joost because - because onybody wis awaar o it - lik takin up tatties for der Sunday denner dae haed to do dat da night afore.

Erik remembers, as a small child, together with his sister, playing with a wheelbarrow outside his grandparents’ house on a Sunday while the Kirk was being held. Erik describes what happened when his aunt realised what they were doing: Een o’ da grandaunts cam oot on da briggistanes an kinda glowered an lookit!

Erik’s mother (see Figure 11.2) explains: …dae [the bairns] got suitably reproved!

A strict Sabbath routine was also kept in the author’s grandparents’ home. Certain things were not allowed, such as knitting, card playing and even hair or nail cutting. She never once saw her grandmother or elderly aunts lift a knitting needle on a Sunday. It was seen as their day of rest from work.

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Figure 11.1 Erik Erasmuson’s Family Home at Greenbraes, Skeld (copyright Shetland Museum, permission granted).

Figure 11.2 Four Generations of the Erasmusons (copyright Erik Erasmuson, permission granted).

As Mrs Erasmuson explains, knitting was something done for gain, for selling, so this was seen as a form of employment. Likewise, chores had to be finished and new work started at certain times to appease the Sunday curfew. Owing to superstition inherited from his father in Skeld, Erik even now would never start a project or repair something on a Sunday “because nothin but ill wid come apon it”, preferring instead to leave it until Monday.

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Fishing Lore Fishing was also banned on the Sabbath as this again was perceived as gain. Erik explained that his family could go out in the boat on a Sunday for pleasure but affirmed: I don't tink we ever weetit a dorrow “I don’t think we ever wet a line”

Although not an overtly religious man, Erik still adheres to this tradition today, but says his son Robert, who is in his early thirties, would “hove a dorrow ower da side on a Sunday nae budder” (throw a line over the side on a Sunday no bother). This dilution of belief is also reflected in the hallowed language of fishermen still used by Erik when off in his boat. The words “cat” and “minister” are never uttered: instead Erik would use footic and upstaander. In comparison, Robert would not worry about these superstitions and may voice them just to tease his dad! Steeped in tradition, Erik relates other superstitions that still hold fast in the Erasmuson family. Like his father and grandfather before him, Erik will spit into the mouth of the first fish landed, ensuring luck for a good catch. Reminiscing about past fishing trips, he recounts being warned by his grand-uncle not to count the fish. When the first one was landed, the older men would say there was licht idda lum “light in the chimney” and other fish that followed were white apun white! Like all fishing communities, the Islands’ older generation were adept at reading the weather. Certain things were done at certain times depending on the sun and the moon and how the tide was running. When off in the boat, Erik explains that he would never turn the boat against the sun: …you hed tae turn wi da sun … so you cam roond wi da sun - da tidder wye wis caad “widdergaets” - you wid niver a geed widdergaets - dat wis not allowed.

Mrs Erasmuson recalled weather lore related by an old neighbour who came from the Island of Papa Stour: A gaa behind - never mind; A gaa afore he's comin a snore

If a gaa (very small rainbow) was seen behind the sun, you didn’t have to worry, but if it was in front, then you could expect a brisk wind.3

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The moon and tides also played an important role in traditional belief systems. Charlie Laurenson remembers the old men in Firth saying: Da sillock needs twa drinks o' da May flüd afore he's wirt tae aet 4 “a young coalfish needs two drinks of the May tide before he is worth eating”

Historian Walter Gregor collected similar weather lore from the fishing villages in the North East of Scotland and it is evident that much of this is shared with the Northern Isles. He found in St Coombs a belief that the new moon lying on her back with small points, likened to a cup to hold water, was looked on as a bad moon that would be emptied during her course!5 In Peterhead, a popular rhyme was collected: Mackerel backs and mares’ tails Make lofty ships carry low sails 6

The haaf fishermen of Shetland relied deeply on weather signs as their open boats were vulnerable to the changing seas (see Figure 11.3). Haaf is the term used for line-fishing in an open boat, often 30 miles offshore. The haaf fishermen would stay at sea for two to three days at a time. Sometimes unfamiliar weather signs were difficult to read with unfortunate consequences, as observed by Charles Nicolson, a crofting fisherman from Firth, on the morning of 21st December, 1900. That year the winter fishing had been poor with little money coming into the community, made worse by a gale that sprang up at the end of November, which never abated until the 21st December. That fateful morning Charles noticed something unusual: Early that Friday morning young Willie Nicolson from Sandgeo was woken by his father at the door checking the weather. It was three o’clock and Charles Nicolson told his son “you’ll get up… he’s wan o’ da finest mornings ever I seen in my life. But…he’s a most terrible crack o’ bretsh [swell] here upo da shore” Willie obviously felt something wasn’t right and asked: “whits da reason o’ bretsh upo da shore an da wind lyin’ westerly?” His father replied: “I don’t know but you’d better get up”. 7

Six more households in the parish of Delting arose that morning, the men heading to sea for a much-needed catch. By 5.30am the seven boats were heading to the East Haaf – the haddock fishing grounds 20 miles off shore between Yell and Fetlar. Willie Nicolson recalled that they had set their

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lines and “set up the fire kettle for tea” (they lit a fire in a pot aboard the boat to boil the water).8 At half past ten, without warning, gusts of 120 miles an hour hit the east side of Shetland. With it came blinding sleet as the men cut their lines and tried to reach the safety of land. Only three boats made it home. Four boats perished with all hands, twenty-two men leaving fifteen widows and fifty-one children.9 The Delting Disaster, as it became known, followed similar fishing tragedies in the closing decades of the late nineteenth century. During the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, haaf fishing for the landowner was the primary means of paying their rent by tenant crofters, along with butter and oil.10 Fishing tenures were controlled by lairds and merchants and were often a condition of renting a croft. If the tenant could not fish and rent was in arrears, he could be evicted with forty days’ notice.11 When a husband was lost, the family were often evicted, facing a very insecure future. In 1881, great sadness hit the village of Firth as three of its men were drowned at the haaf fishing. The three widows of James Robertson, Alexander Beattie and Gilbert Couper moved in with relatives and the three crofts were taken over by other families. 12 One of the men who drowned had been given new fishing lines by the merchant before going off. His widow visited the merchant to discuss payment for this following his loss. She had no money, so the merchant took her cow in lieu of payment for the lines, leaving her young family without milk and nourishment. The loss of so many boats and their crews during the haaf fishing in the nineteenth century must have caused much anxiety for women, as the loss of their husbands could have dire consequences for their future. The Delting men who were lost in 1900 were not haaf fishermen, tied to their landlords in a truck system, but were supplementing their income in the winter haddock line fishery.13 The loss of twenty-two men from one small community had a lasting effect on the whole township.14 The disaster finally saw an end to commercial open boat, line fishery, with new decked motorboats becoming the norm for haddock fishing during the first decades of the twentieth century.15

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Figure 11.3 Frank Scott, Jack Tulloch, John Scott, Bertie Tulloch Hand Line Fishing West of Mavis Grind (copyright Shetland Museum, permission granted).

The Language of the Sea It is little wonder that, when the fishery took them far out to sea in open boats, fishermen and their families held fast to beliefs and superstitions that might keep them safe. Deep within the rhythms of daily life, luck appears to have been a driving force and nothing was left to chance, especially when it came to fishing. Things were said and done to placate evil spirits and certain rituals were performed to keep ill at bay; others were carried out in the hope of good fortune. Fishermen were particularly devoted to this lore as their livelihood depended on a good catch and a safe return. Erik Erasmuson is uneasy about letting go of inherent superstition but his son Robert, who has spent less time at sea with men as steeped in lore as Erik, has no worries about such rituals. The language of the sea, still used by Erik, is an age-old tradition going back over generations. Alexander Fenton collated four hundred and fifty of these taboo sea words, his research showing the word “cat” is avoided throughout Britain and Ireland.16 Erik uses the word footik for a “cat”, a variant of the Scots fit “foot” and the Old Norse fótr / fótingr meaning the footed one.

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Similarly, in the Outer Hebrides it was forbidden to utter “minister”, “salmon”, “pig”, “hare”, “rat” and “rabbit”. Erik uses the word upstaander rather than mention the minister; he also notes that, if his family met the minister on the way to their boat, they would turn around and head back home. The fishermen’s taboo vocabulary or haaf-language, also known as noa words, comes from particular superstitions surrounding certain people, objects and animals. Religion appears to be a particular concern, with noa words for the minister including beniman, hoidin, predikanter and singnar; Scottish fishermen called him the black-coat.17 Described as code-words, these noa words could be uttered without causing unseen harm from perceived sea spirits.18 Also used in Norwegian and Faroese fishing communities, Knooihuizen notes this protective vocabulary is known in the Faroes as sjómál or sea-language.19 The use of taboo language by fisherfolk is not a recent phenomenon. Martin Martin recorded in the late seventeenth century that the names of out-lying islands in the Hebrides were never mentioned by local fishermen at sea: for example, Eigg was referred to as the Island of the big women, Canna was called Tarsuin “the island lying across”, and words like rock were given the synonym hard. In Barra it was deemed very bad luck to meet a red-haired woman on your way to the fishing, and in Lewis meeting any woman was unlucky, no matter what her hair colour. 20 To use these forbidden words for objects and places might bring bad luck to the boat so must be avoided, but equally rituals could be performed to evoke good fishing. By spitting in the first fish’s mouth, Erik is hopeful that this will ensure a plentiful catch. Ernest Marwick noted that, if the fish were slow to take, it was pertinent to spit in the mouth of the first one caught21 and some would then send the fish back to the deep to encourage the other fish.22 A retired fisherman from Scalloway, Bobby Fraser, relates the ritual employed by his father when fishing was slow: …Dad would go down into the engine room and take up a long rod with a bit of rag dipped in oil, light it and take it to the bow. … he would roar and make queer noises, putting away evil spirits, then he would go down to the stern. He said I hope we will have some luck now. He dipped the rod in the water and put it back down to the engine room.23

Shetland historian James R. Nicolson also noted the colour of stones used for ballast was important in warding off misfortune; any having white veins of quartz were perceived to be unlucky so were discarded.24 Bobby Fraser also recounted that fishie stanes had to be grey with no markings and that green ones were very unlucky.25

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Lay du on an Aamos…. In the past, Shetlanders would lay on an aamos in the hope of a good catch. In the Shetland Dictionary, John Graham described an aamos as: A gift promised in the hope that a wish will be granted to the donor. The donor is said to lay on an aamos and, if the wish is granted, the person who was presumed to have brought the luck is said to have won the aamos.26

You must not tell the person that you have put an aamos on them in the hope that, unbeknown to them, they will help in your quest for good luck. If the outcome is positive and your wish comes true, you must repay the person you laid the aamos upon. In the past, this might have been the gift of a packet of tea, wool or a half-bottle of sherry! During the 1950s, Erik remembers receiving a bar of chocolate from an elderly neighbour; Anderina Sinclair had lost her cat and so laid an aamos on Erik in the hope of the animal’s safe return. The cat duly turned up and Erik got his just reward. William Fordyce Clarke, writing in 1930, records the tradition was to lay an aamos on “some poor, maimed or deformed person.”27 He also suggests that each parish in Shetland had at least one individual who enjoyed the reputation of being lucky at winning “awmouses in a way that bordered on miraculous”. Fordyce Clark also notes an aamos could be vowed to a particular church rather than a person. This practice is noted in Shetland folklore but it is also recorded by visitors to the Islands such as Reverend John Brand in 1700 and Samuel Hibbert in 1822.28 This custom was traditionally carried out by women to keep their men safe while at sea, but also by men setting off on their way to the Greenland whaling.29 Gifts of money or charms were usually placed into crevices in the church walls to ensure a safe journey. There are at least four aamos Kirks in Shetland: the Cross Kirk in Eshaness, the St Ninian’s Isle Chapel, Our Lady’s Kirk also known as the Aamos Kirk at Weisdale and, in the North of Unst, the Cross Kirk in Clibberswick.30 Saxby notes that the Cross Kirk in Clibberswick was still in use in the eighteenth century and was a place of pilgrimage where women travelled to pray and lay coins to ensure the safe return of their men at sea.31 The medieval St Ninian’s Isle Chapel (see Figure 11.4) was built around the twelfth century and may have been in decline following the Reformation.32 The Reverend John Brand visited the site in 1700 and noted:

In Aboot Da Night wi da Erasmusons: An Island Family’s Beliefs and Lore 163 To the North West of the Ness lyes St. Ninian’s Isle, very pleasant: wherein there is a Chappel and an Altar in it whereon some superstitious people do burn Candles to this day.33

During his travels in Shetland, the Reverend Brand also recounted the history of the Cross Kirk in Eshaness (see Figure 11.5). He was no doubt relieved to report the people of the parish: …to be discreet and civilized…owing to the labours of Mr Hercules Sinclair, sometime minister there, reputed to be Zealous and faithful: He, in his Zeal, against superstition, raised [razed] Cross-Kirk, in this parish; Because the People superstitiously frequented it: And, when demolished, behind the place where the Altar stood, and also beneath the Pulpit, were found several pieces of Silver in various shapes, brought thither as offerings by afflicted people, some being in the form of a Head, others of an Arm, others of a Foot, accordingly as the offerers were distressed in these parts of the body…34 Figure 11.4 The Ruins of the St Ninian’s Isle Chapel (copyright author).

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Figure 11.5 Cross Kirk, Eshaness (copyright author).

Figure 11.6 Small Bronze Horse Charm from Cross Kirk, Eshaness (copyright National Museum of Scotland, permission granted).

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A bronze horse charm,35 dated to the Norse period, was found within the ruins of the Eshaness Kirk and is on display at the Shetland Museum (see Figure 11.6). Two coins of Erik III of Denmark and Norway (13891442) were also found, which suggests this tradition of leaving votive offerings could have been practised at Eshaness as early as the fourteenth century.36 A small steatite cup was discovered near the high altar, very close to where the horse charm was found. It may have been used as a lamp but its shape is not atypical of medieval steatite lamps. The Museum Record also documents a conversation with Katie Cheyne from Tangwick, Eshaness, who was born in 1904. She remembers her mother Liza Cheyne, born in 1871, relating a story that, in the seventeenth century, when folk from outwith Eshaness, for example Hillswick, travelled north, on coming over Greenfield and in sight of the Cross Kirk, they would go down on their hands and knees and travel in that way until back out of sight of the Kirk again.37 The magic held within the Eshaness Kirk was also reputedly evident in the snails which infested the walls! Hibbert recorded that: Even the shell-snails that infested the walls were supposed to be possessed of particular healing powers; they were dried, pulverised and administered for the cure of jaundice.38

Hibbert also visited the Aamos kirk at Weisdale and reported: Our Lady's Kirk, which, for a century after the abolition of Popery, was, even while in ruins, still visited by the vulgar. It was resorted to in completion of promises made during perilous navigations…The mariner also placed his confidence in the offerings which he might make within the pale of the church, trusting that they would secure for him a happy voyage. Within these walls the supplicant would light candles, and even when the shrine had been destroyed, would drop money among the ruins, or would parade around the kirk on his bare knees. 39

He also observes it was frequented by women who pray in the hope of finding a man to suit them and notes: “Near the pulpit of the church a great quantity of all the different currencies of Shetland has been found, from the guilder down to the stiver”. Saxby notes that when the person dropped the coin, they would be heard to say: “Gude be wi’ me and mine”.40 These votive offerings and the practice of laying on an aamos can be viewed in two ways. Sociologist Bronislaw Malinowski, when discussing rituals performed in New Guinea to keep fishermen safe, refers to them as magic, while others argue they are religious practices.41 Malinowski felt these magic rituals were needed to reduce anxiety by providing confidence

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and a feeling of control. Certainly, Shetland women would be in a similar position of wanting to do anything necessary to keep their men safe, and by placing their trust in the Aamos Kirk this would go some way to alleviating their anxiety. Religious prayer would work in the same way, giving the person offering up the prayer hope that God would watch over their loved one and deliver them safely home. Putting lucky charms into the Kirk walls as offerings is described by James George Frazer as “Sympathetic Magic”; the placing of objects in the shape of body parts would be based on the “Law of Similarity”, which might also be called “Homeopathic” or “Imitative Magic”.42 Their use would therefore evoke positive magic by healing the offending body part, but this custom might also ensure that danger and unnatural forces were warded off. The coins that were deposited might also be seen as lucky charms and it might be that the Church walls were regarded as significant in this tradition because they could be viewed as a liminal place between God on the inside and other powers at work on the outside, keeping both appeased by the offering. The practice of leaving an aamos in the Kirk was obviously seen by visiting scholars and ministers as a form of Catholic veneration that should have been stamped out with the Reformation in the sixteenth century, but, as evidence shows, the custom was still being practised two hundred years later.43 In conclusion, much has changed over the last four decades in the Shetland Isles. Modern technology and oil wealth have altered the traditional culture significantly, yet still today some of da auld wyes live on in the middle-aged generation: superstition is a difficult thing to let go of when the voices of the past remain clear in the mind. The younger generation live in different times, with less reliance on crofting and fishing and all the rituals and lore that accompanied them. Many of these customs are shared across the North of Scotland especially with the seaboard communities, and the decline witnessed in the Northern Isles is most probably happening in their communities too. Talking with the Erasmuson family, it became evident that traditionally held beliefs and superstitions are becoming diluted within the modern world and its scientific advances, but belief in the luck of the aamos still continues today. A few years ago, the author’s sister-in-law laid an aamos on her son so that English darts champion, Phil Taylor, would lose the match he was playing! Unbeknown to Taylor, magic was being created in Shetland that evening. He duly lost in the final and her son, much to his surprise, became the proud owner of a new Playstation game a few days later. It is fascinating to consider that laying on an aamos is still being applied in the hope of luck today, something that has been done by Shetlanders for centuries.

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Acknowledgments The author would like to dedicate this Chapter to the memory of Mrs Matilda Erasmuson, who passed away in August 2016, a kind and modest lady with a vast knowledge of times past. She sincerely thanks the Erasmuson family for recording their beliefs and lore, Bobby Fraser who shared his memoirs, the late Charlie Laurenson for recording his stories of Firth, and Robbie Arthur for his knowledge of all things Shetland.

Notes 1. Martha Robertson, ed. The Collected Poems of Vagaland (Lerwick: Shetland Times Ltd, 1975), 122-123. 2. See for example Jessie M.E. Saxby, Shetland Traditional Lore (Edinburgh: Grant & Murray, 1932) and Ernest W. Marwick, The Folklore of Orkney and Shetland (London: B.T. Batsford, 1975). 3. Bertie Deyell, ed. Shetland Proverbs and Sayings (Lerwick: Shetland Folk Society, 1993), 83. 4. Jenny Murray, “Firth: In Living Memory,” Unpublished project, University of the Highlands and Islands (2006), 14. 5. Walter Gregor, “Weather Folk-Lore of the Sea,” Folklore, Volume 2, No. 4 (1891), 472. 6. Ibid., 478. 7. Shetland Archives, D\Anderson 6\01-12; Murray, “Firth: In Living Memory,” 9. 8. Shetland Archives, D\Anderson 6\01-12. 9. “Appalling Fishing Disaster- North Delting Devastated”, The Shetland Times 29/12/1900. 10. Richard Smith, “Shetland in the World Economy: A Sociological History of the 18th and 19th Centuries,” Unpublished diss., University of Edinburgh, (1986), 66. 11. James. R. Coull, The Sea Fisheries of Scotland: A Historical Geography (Edinburgh: John Donald Publishers Ltd, 1996), 259. 12. Alan Beattie, “Firth: the Development of a Toonship,” The New Shetlander, No. 219 (Voar Issue) (Lerwick: Shetland Council of Social Services, 2002). 13. See Alexander Fenton, The Northern Isles: Orkney and Shetland (Edinburgh: John Donald Publishers Ltd, 1978), 583-587. 14. Murray, “Firth: In Living Memory.” 15. Charles A. Goodlad, Shetland Fishing Saga (Lerwick, Shetland: The Shetland Times Ltd., 1971), 213-220; James R. Coull, Fishing, Fishermen, Fish Merchants and Curers in Shetland (Lerwick: Shetland Amenity Trust, 2007), 51-57. 16. Alexander Fenton, “The Sea-Vocabulary of Fishermen in the Northern Isles,” in Boats, Fishing and The Sea, eds. James R. Coull, et al. (Edinburgh, John Donald Publishers Ltd, 2008), 474. 17. Alexander Fenton, The Northern Isles: Orkney and Shetland (Edinburgh: John Donald Publishers Ltd, 1978), 621.

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18. Remco Knooihuizen, “Fishing for Words: The taboo language of Shetland fishermen and the dating of Norn language death,” Transactions of the Philological Society 106 (1) (2008), 106. 19. Ibid., 107. 20. Isabel F. Grant, Highland Folk Ways, (Edinburgh: Birlinn Ltd, 1995), 275. 21. Marwick, The Folklore of Orkney and Shetland, 77. 22. Robbie Arthur, 2010, personal communication. 23. Bobby Fraser, Memories of Growing up in Burra and Scalloway from the 1940s. Unpublished Personal History (2008), 39. 24. James R. Nicolson, Shetland Folklore (London, Robert Hale, 1981), 117. 25. Fraser, Memories of Growing up in Burra, 38. 26. John J. Graham, The Shetland Dictionary (Lerwick, Shetland: The Shetland Times Ltd, 1999), 1. 27. William Fordyce Clark, The Shetland Sketch Book; Folk-lore, Legend, Humour, Incident (Edinburgh: Oliver and Boyd, 1930), 44. 28. Rev. John Brand, A Brief Description of Orkney, Zetland, Pightland-Firth and Caithness, (1701), 143; Samuel Hibbert, A Description of the Shetland Islands, Comprising an Account of their Geology, Scenery, Antiquities, and Superstitions, (Edinburgh, 1822), 473 and 537. 29. Saxby, Shetland Traditional Lore, 14 and 20-21; Shetland Archives: D1/135/ 300. 30. Marwick, The Folklore of Orkney and Shetland, 62; Saxby, Shetland Traditional Lore, 14, 20-21. 31. Saxby, Shetland Traditional Lore, 14. 32. See Alan Small, St Ninian’s Isle and its Treasure – Volume One ( London: Oxford University Press, 1973). 33. Brand, A Brief Description of Orkney, 126. 34. Ibid., 143. 35. Shetland Museum No. XIL 719, 36. See Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries Scotland, Volume 84, (19491950), 231. 37. Shetland Museum Record: ARC 7456. 38. Hibbert, A Description of the Shetland Islands, 537. 39. Ibid., 473. 40. Saxby, Shetland Traditional Lore, 20. 41. Michael Haralambos, Martin Holborn and Robin M. Heald, Sociology Themes and Perspectives (London: HarperCollins Publishers Ltd, 2000), 434. 42. James G. Frazer, The Golden Bough (London: Penguin Books, 1996), 13. 43. The Statistical Account of the Shetland Isles, by the Ministers of the Respective Parishes. (Edinburgh: William Blackwood and Sons, 1841).

CHAPTER TWELVE RESISTING IMPRESSMENT IN ORKNEY AND SHETLAND KIM BURNS

This Chapter will discuss how Orkney and Shetland’s press gang tales encapsulated local identity and fostered resistance to authority. There are, of course, many theories pertaining to folklore analysis: for example, as a method of identifying how themes and motifs are transmitted between communities, observing how folklore can enhance nationality, as well as analysis from the viewpoint of anthropological, Marxist and psychoanalytical opinion to observe the human condition. This Chapter, however, will focus mainly on the theories of folklorists William Bascom and Alan Dundes by applying it to local press gang tales. Bascom argued that the retelling of folktales has many functions: they provide a sociable environment, they provide amusement, they validate their culture and they educate the audience.1 Around the Orkney Peat Fires, first published in 1890, contains more than eighty press gang stories, mostly about successful evasion.2 There are stories from every parish in Orkney, which feature family names and places the way that the Orkneyinga Saga named supporters playing a part in local history alongside the earl.3 In this way, the press gang tales spoke to the day-to-day life of the audience, their location, their chores, and their familiar surnames, all of which added relevance and strengthened tradition.4 Not all of the tales are discussed here: some appear to be no more than repeats of motifs but with different characters, perhaps demonstrating how oral tales get altered over time, but their inclusion in Around the Orkney Peatfires is nevertheless important. Some of Shetland’s press gang tales were recorded in the 1970s by folklorist Alan Bruford for the School of Scottish Studies.5 Orkney and Shetland are unusual in the quantity of preserved folktales of this type, demonstrating their value and interest to the local population. Their relative isolation

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leading to limited external influences also ensured the stories were not overtaken with newer tales. Impressment - the enforced seizure by the government of men to work in the army or navy - was detested by everyone, regardless of where they lived. Escape, avoidance, resistance and protest took place, not because men were then unpatriotic6 but because “the working classes, especially those accustomed to a seafaring life, were remorselessly torn from hearth and home wherever they could be found,” yet men of wealth and position were never impressed.7 Impressment was popularly agreed to be an unjust system which contributed to prolonged ill feeling: it was one of the reasons behind the Spithead and Nore Mutinies of 1797. Impressment as such ceased to exist after the Napoleonic Wars: the introduction of better pay and conditions for seamen and periods of peace successfully attracted into the navy sufficient numbers of sailors as volunteers. Navy life was unpopular because it was common knowledge that life at sea during wartime was arduous and unpleasant. Men were poorly fed and disease was rife. Navy pay was significantly less than that of the merchant navy,8 and men often had to wait months for their wages. Life was difficult on land too, especially for those in poverty: there were several years of failed or poor crops in Orkney and Shetland, resulting in starvation. But impressment also meant men being taken away from their home and their work on the farm for possibly years at a time, or they might not return at all. It was the enforced, and often violent, loss of liberty that affected whole families, when a man was suddenly pressed and removed from his home. From 1740, naval impressment was applied to anyone who “used” the sea, though many of these were actually farmers by trade.9 Men from the Northern Isles were all considered to be seafaring men10 and believed that this was the reason the Isles were disproportionally targeted.11 Both Orkney and Shetland had difficulties providing the number of men demanded. The press gang “scoured the islands”, entering houses at night and hauling men out of their beds.12 The government paid no heed to people’s individual circumstances and turned a blind eye to abuses of the law by over-eager regulating officers. It was understandable to try and recruit from seaports, where there were greater numbers of sailors, but in the Northern Isles men were not sailors alone. They were farmers who used boats, or fishermen who also worked on land. Taking them from their home and work had a much greater effect on the small population. In 1803, when war broke out, HMS Carysfort was instructed to proceed immediately to Shetland to impress one hundred men. The Captain of the Carysfort, Robert Fanshawe RN, wrote to Shetland’s fourteen most prominent landowners, stating that, if the required number

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of men came forward, he would not start to take men off their fishing boats.13 Obviously, in Orkney and Shetland fishing families were most at risk. In 1836, when giving evidence, Shetlander and shipping merchant Arthur Anderson, who had himself been impressed when underage and subsequently released, said: These islanders have been treated ill. They have never received any attention, as far as their local interests are concerned, from the Government of this country. But when, in times of danger, men were required to man the navy, then they have been subjected to a most relentless species of persecution by Press gangs.14

These reasons contributed to the resistance and avoidance by Orcadians and Shetlanders, who preferred to try and remain in control of their lives by choosing where to work, and to try and stay within their own community. If they had wanted to go to sea, they had the option of signing up for a fixed term on whaling ships, with guaranteed wages, or going to work for the Hudson’s Bay Company, from which men often returned home having saved enough earnings to purchase a croft. Most definitions of folklore concern the “lore”, but some concern the “folk”.15 Dundes’ early definition of the “folk” was “the uncivilised element in a civilised society” - as defined by the “civilised” end of society, or “the illiterate in a literate society”,16 a description which identified both the audience and the main characters in press gang tales: the targets for impressments were peasants, farmworkers, the working class, especially those accustomed to a seafaring life. A Marxist interpretation of folklore - that usually produced or inspired by industrialisation - would argue that folktales are the weapon of class protest.17 Press gang evasion tales are most certainly a celebration of ordinary working people scoring a point against the establishment, fighting against the expectations of the wealthy landowners against whom they had no power – the “triumph of the weak over the strong”.18 For example, until the Crofters Act (1886), landowners could force tenants off their land if they so wished. Farmworkers often depended on their laird for paid work on the land. Therefore, hearing how men avoided both the will of the landlord and a Government Act would be an expression of protest as well as entertainment. As Dundes observes: “Wherever there is injustice and oppression, one can be sure that the victims will find some solace in folklore.”19 The tales would have been told in family groups or with extended families and trusted neighbours and friends.20 Since some of these stories ridiculed the establishment or criticised the laird or the law, it would have

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been dangerous to retell them openly in front of strangers. The working people of Orkney and Shetland had few enough rights, and running the risk of crossing the laird could be dangerous. The gangs were run by appointed lairds. An example of a man upsetting the local laird, which resulted in having his name added to the impressments list, is the story of William Heddle in “A Narrow Escape”.21 This tale was, therefore, an acknowledgement of their tentative hold on the land and their livelihood. The fact that William Heddle was never impressed, even though the laird had called for it, could be seen to be provocative. In the story, Heddle armed himself, therefore greatly strengthening his heroic image in the eyes of the audience, while the laird “suffered for the part he played in the transaction [...] he was in terror for his life”.22 In the tale of “The Laird of Beaquoy’s Victim”,23 a laird betrayed a friend to the gang and the pressed man was not even allowed to see his family before he left. However, the story goes on to describe how the parish was “incensed at this cruel treatment”24 and prayed for retribution on the laird. Their prayers were realised, so the tale demonstrated that right was on the side of the community and not the laird. This act of justice in the tale is reminiscent of epic narrative: one of the epic laws of folk narrative found in all European folklore is that revenge must be taken on the traitor.25 “The Death of James Smith”, a Shetland tale of a much disliked laird, relates how the dead body of Smith sat up and confessed his sins: I want to tell you some of my worst sins. I evicted Ossie Tait from his land and took his farm for myself. When I bought a fat cow from a tenant, I cheated him of thirteen shillings because he could not count English coin. I sold the widow Marion Jamieson’s two sons to the Press gang; I told them where the boys were hiding. Will God forgive me?26

These tales reveal the tension and distrust between many lairds and the people. Their grievances are aired in public, as a form of class protest and an acknowledgement of the shared difficulties of the audience listening to the tale. “A Cruel Bait” told of how men were duped into picking up a shilling outside the Ship Inn in Kirkwall and then pressed by the gang who waited inside. “Many a young man was captured in this way, and there can be no question that such tactics as these helped considerably to arouse the feelings of the working classes against the press gang”.27 This is the Orcadian version of many, similar, well-known tales from other British towns and cities, of being duped by the press gang: for example, placing the King’s shilling in the bottom of a pint of beer.

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“The Press gang made a deep impression on folk tradition”28 and common motifs are found in the stories which appear to have been adapted from traditional tales. Some of the tales resemble fairytales, employing motifs and themes found in European folklore. One tale which uses animals to aid the hero is “A Hunt Between Stromness and Sandwick”.29 The man who was being chased by the press gang was able to borrow a horse on which to escape. When the press gang member giving chase borrowed (pressed?) another horse, it “brought up in an unexpected manner”, lay down on the banks of Quoyloo and gave birth to a foal.30 This almost amounts to an Act of God! It again reinforces the belief that what the press gang was doing was against natural justice. Some tales, even though they were told as if they were both true and local, are actually migratory tales of exploits or events which can be found in many other places attached to the name of a local hero.31 Besides protest, the retelling of folktales can be a way of expressing taboo subjects. The characters in folktales do things that are prohibited in real life, for example fighting back, or women fighting and injuring men. “Rescued by a Female” recounts how one Graemsay woman struck a member of the press gang with such power that he had to have his hand amputated.32 A tale recorded by Bruford described how two pressed brothers in Shetland were required to pilot the press gang back out to their ship. The brothers guided them to a particularly dangerous cave and pushed the press gang in, to their deaths.33 The psychoanalytic interpretation of these folktales in this context would suggest an outlet for the repression of thoughts expressing the fear of captivity, loss of life, imposition of society, desire for revenge.34 Folktales can be an attempt to escape into fantasy from the difficult conditions in which people live, or from their own biological or economic limitations.35 They also pay homage to the “collective memory” associated with a great hardship suffered by a close-knit community. These collective memories are often partisan, glossing over actual evidence,36 for example, not addressing that often the press gang were other local people. Ó Gráda states that collective memory with its simplistic image of the past tells us more about the audience than the story.37 So, folktales reveal a worldview: “the way a people characteristically look outward upon the universe”, their “concept of nature, of self and of society”.38 This worldview is usually not a conscious expression: it is implicit rather than explicit. The element of autobiography39 in these press gang tales reveals respect for the strength of family. In “A Strange Meeting”,40 an unknown ship arrives and the crew seize some fishermen. One of the fishermen meets in private with the Captain, who turns out to

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be his long-lost brother. The Captain leaves without pressing any men from there, respecting family ties even after long absence, therefore acknowledging to the audience that the Orcadian-born Captain has still retained his sense of justice. This tale validated local culture from the audience’s point of view.41 Consequently, the press gang folktales expressed the beliefs and attitudes of the community.42 The length of time that these folktales have survived demonstrates that the community was oriented toward the past, where the known was valued.43 The popularity of storytelling reflected a fondness for nostalgia with currents of romanticism, nationalism and identity.44 Press gangs, so universally resisted and denounced, provided an excellent vehicle for these tales. Successful escapes, using knowledge of local geography to aid in that escape, appealed to the folk of the Northern Isles’ sense of pride in their location and their identity as resourceful and independent-spirited people. “A Big Risk”, in which two men at Roseness Point hid from the press gang in the cliffs, surviving on seabird eggs, is an example of this.45 The story of how a widowed mother struggled to maintain the freedom of her only son in “A Mother’s Watchfulness” reveals strong family bonds and the importance of the younger generation in the success or failure of the farm or croft, and support of ageing parents, as well as the belief that the elderly should be respected.46 Losing a son could well have meant poverty and even death for the widow, and the tale of “A Harsh Proceeding” dealt with this.47 The press gang resisted all attempts the widow made to save her son, including her plea: “Tak’ my only coo, but leave my son”.48 The audience would have been very aware that losing her only cow was also a great loss. In this tale the widow “died of a broken heart”, so it reinforced the inhumanity of the faceless press gang, carrying out the orders of the establishment, who had no idea, or didn’t care, about the effects of impressments on the family and the wider community.49 Tales which feature a single son living alone with his mother reference well-known, traditional fairytale beginnings, for example “Jack and the Beanstalk”,50 in which the boy must go on to slay a giant. According to the Aarne-Thompson Classification Tale Type Index for folklore motifs, this matches Type 300, Dragon Slayer. Although those tales usually end happily, the press gang tales often subvert the expected happy ending. In these tales, the dragon is the press gang itself, and sometimes it succeeds in capturing the hero. The romantic nature of press gang escapes is revealed in tales where sweethearts are separated, and some go on to be reunited. There are several tales of press gangs interrupting weddings, for example “Married in spite of the Press Gang”51 and “An Interrupted Courtship”, in which the

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women in the tales play an active part in ensuring the marriages actually take place.52 These tales demonstrate how all parts of the community could resist the press gang. Graham Seal refers to the narrative framework of the outlaw hero tradition: in this case, the “outlaw” has the support of social groups who together form a resistant community.53 “A Token and A Sign” celebrates the strength of love.54 The sweetheart “murmelted” at the loss of her man, and gave him some bread and cheese to take away, which Johnnie kept until they were reunited.55 The story also contains punishment or retribution against the oppressor, because Johnnie serves on the same ship as his captor, who commits an offence. Johnnie is ordered to whip him, “and he applied it with such a pith to the hurdies of his old enemy that the commander of the squad [...] exclaimed, ‘That man did his duty’”.56 There is an example of tragedy in the tale “Betrayed by a Child”, where the press gang takes advantage of a child’s innocence.57 On their arrival, the father hides in the press (large cupboard), which he has prepared for such an eventuality by taking out the shelves. He cannot be found when the press gang search the house, until the small child shouts “Da’s in dae press”, as if he is playing a game.58 A celebration of local identity is present in stories where the men pursued by the press gang employed cunning, skill, excellent local knowledge and resourcefulness to resist the press gang. The use of peat stacks, cleverly constructed with a gap for a man to hide inside, demonstrated that families could use whatever they had to foil the press gang, as in “The Press Gang in North Ronaldsay”.59 Many of the tales are also in the Orcadian or Shetland dialect, which adds to the audience’s ownership. The women of the family would need to take food to the hidden men. This was done by subterfuge as they knew that the press gang would be watching. Good knowledge of caves and the use of pre-arranged signs within the family, such as the location of a tethered cow, allowed the wife to ostentatiously walk up to that area to milk, but secretly and safely drop off food.60 There are many reports of prearranged plans for hiding from the press gang, sometimes for days on end.61 In Skerries, a cow tethered in a particular place would be a signal to returning fishermen that the press gang was about, and to wait out at sea or put in at a quiet cove.62 In North Fara, fishermen were informed of the presence of a cutter by the hoisting of flags or clothes on poles at two prominently situated crofthouses. These tales therefore educate the audience, providing “distilled wisdom of past generations”.63 Again, Seal’s narrative framework identifies the outlaw hero, who outwits, eludes or escapes authority, usually with flair, often in disguise.64

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Pride came from the portrayal of pursued men as heroes. The tale “Ingenuity Rewarded” has one John Stanger feigning injury at capture, so that he had to be carried.65 When the press gang stopped for refreshment, he was able to get away because he was believed to be incapable: “They observed the supposed cripple spanking like a deer up the hills above Finstown!”.66 “Tricking the Press Gang” also features the hero of the tale as a trickster, who uses his wits to escape, in this case by stripping off and rolling in nettles so that he fails the medical examination for what appears to be a skin condition.67 Other tricks were employed: “Successful Malingering” featured men who feigned deafness, pretended to be foolish, or faked epilepsy, all meaning that they were unfit to serve.68 A man who volunteered himself on seeing the gang seize his brother said: “No, leave him; he’s not strong – take me”, and was later rejected by the doctor himself. They really should have taken the other brother.69 The tale “Caught!” must have given great pleasure, as it reflected both inventiveness and community spirit. Two men ostentatiously ran and hid under their boat when the press gang arrived, but as they were both unfit to serve - one had a wooden leg and one a club foot - they had acted as decoys, giving the eligible men more chance of escape.70 This celebrated the spirit of the community, and also conveyed the lesson that apparently weaker individuals can cause unexpected difficulties for a more powerful rival.71 Seal stated that outlaw heroes are often related to powerful notions of national, ethnic or regional identity because they possess a vital knowledge set.72 In this story, evading capture is down to the man knowing his whereabouts so thoroughly. Bruford said: “Memories of press gang fugitives are so strong in Shetland that they are sometimes used today as rationalisation for the fairies of older legends”.73 An Orcadian example of this is the story of “Kate Huntly and the Press gang”, set at the time of the Napoleonic War, when Kate leaves her home to hide with her son from the press gang by living in the wild in the Birsay hills.74 The “dell” still exists and is still referred to as “Kit Huntlin’s”.75 Her whereabouts were betrayed by a neighbour, and her son was pressed. In some versions she is known as Kate Corrigal, in some she killed the press gang by pulling down a tree and crushing them. Mackintosh felt that the story was much older than the Napoleonic War. The theory was taken up by Gregor Lamb, who believed it had migrated from ancient Scandinavia. Lamb saw similarities between the tale of Kate Huntly and the story of Beowulf. Grendel and his mother live in an area of moor and fen, and Kate’s name is a corrupted version of the Old Norse ketta hyndla “ogress”. 76 Shetland can also claim this story as Jakobsen was told the story of Keddhontla who lives in the hills.77 This

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is therefore an example of a very old tale with supernatural motifs that has been adapted to air contemporaneous issues of press gang capture. As previously stated, Briggs said that “the press gang made a deep impression on folk tradition”,78 and this is another example of how a traditional tale became adapted. Popular folktales about evasion from the press gangs contributed to Orcadian and Shetlandic identity and formed and supported their reaction to impressment. The tales were regarded as true, and there was pleasure and amusement in hearing of the success of simple country folk pitted against “their betters”, or even the fact that one resourceful man could outrun and outwit a group of many. Hobsbawm’s theory of the social bandit states that resentment exists within country communities because they see themselves as separate from, and inferior to, the wealthy and educated, even though they are dependent on them.79 This resentment was fuelled by the additional communal strain from loss of men: a reduced workforce fostered a romantic hero worship of the men who avoided impressment. Graham Seal states that outlaw heroes arise when a cultural or ethnic group believe themselves to be oppressed and unjustly treated by those who wield greater power. The fear is that of loss of identity or that of being ignored or otherwise threatened, in this case by losing their very livelihood.80 Given that the history of impressments is a long one, tales about previous escapes would have been repeated at the time of the Napoleonic Wars. “Folklore is an echo of the past, but also... a vigorous voice of the present”.81 The tales fuelled continued resistance to impressments. When there is a collective, rather than an individual expression of protest, it is difficult to attach blame,82 so the folktales were a relatively safe opportunity to celebrate nostalgia, resistance and protest, pride and identity.

Notes 1. William R. Bascom, “Four Functions of Folklore,” in The Study of Folklore, ed. Alan Dundes (New Jersey: Prentice-Hall Inc, 1965), 279-298. 2. William R. Mackintosh, Around the Orkney Peat Fires (Kirkwall: The Orcadian, 1957). 3. Finnbogi Guðmundsson, ed. “Orkneyinga saga” Íslenzk fornrit 34. (Reykjavík: Hið íslenzka fornritafélag, 1965). 4. Bascom, “Four Functions of Folklore,” 292. 5. Alan J. Bruford, Tocher No. 29. (Edinburgh: School of Scottish Studies Archive, 1978). 6. William M. Gibson, Tales of an Orkney Island (Stronsay) (Kirkwall: published by the author, 1987), 73.

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7. William Chambers, and Robert Chambers, eds. Chambers Journal of Popular Literature, Science and Art (Edinburgh: Chambers, 1895), 347. 8. Nicholas Rogers, Press Gang: Naval Impressment and its Opponents in Georgian Britain (London: Continuum International, 2008), 6. 9. Ibid., 8. 10. James Fraser, “The Orkney Fencibles” Proceedings of the Orkney Antiquarian Society, Volume X. (Kirkwall: The Orcadian, 1932), 43-47. 11. James R. Nicolson, Traditional Life in Shetland (London: Robert Hale, 1978), 26. 12. Ibid., 27. 13. John D. M. Robertson, The Press gang in Orkney and Shetland (Kirkwall: The Orcadian, 2011), 64. 14. Peter Jamieson, “The Press Gang in Shetland,” Shetland Folk Book, Volume 5 (Lerwick: Shetland Times, 1971), 65. 15. Alan Dundes, The Study of Folklore (New Jersey: Prentice-Hall Inc, 1965), 1. 16. Ibid., 2. 17. Alan Dundes, Interpreting Folklore (Indiana University Press, 1980), 8. 18. Bascom, “Four Functions of Folklore,” 289. 19. Dundes, Interpreting Folklore, 308. 20. Mackintosh, Around the Orkney Peat Fires, 9. 21. Ibid., 166-168. 22. Ibid.,168. 23. Ibid., 178-180. 24. Ibid., 179. 25. Axel Olrik, “Epic Laws of Folk Narrative,” in The Study of Folklore, ed. Alan Dundes, (New Jersey: Prentice-Hall Inc, 1965), 132. 26. Lawrence Tulloch, Shetland Folk Tales (The History Press, 2014), 157. 27. Mackintosh, Around the Orkney Peat Fires, 166. 28. Katherine M. Briggs, A Dictionary of British Folk Tales in the English Language, Part B, Folk Legends (section on local legends) (London: Routledge, 1991), 324. 29. Mackintosh, Around the Orkney Peat Fires, 228-229. 30. Ibid., 228-229. 31. Bruford, Tocher, 303. 32. Mackintosh, Around the Orkney Peat Fires, 259. 33. Bruford, Tocher, 312. 34. Bascom, “Four Functions of Folklore,” 290. 35. Ibid., 291. 36. Cormac Ó Gráda, “Famine, Trauma and Memory,” in Béaloideas Iml 69, (The Folklore of Ireland Society 2001), 140. 37. Ibid., 141. 38. Dundes, Interpreting Folklore, 69. 39. Ibid., 70. 40. Mackintosh, Around the Orkney Peat Fires, 174-175. 41. Bascom, “Four Functions of Folklore,” 295. 42. Ibid., 284.

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43, Dundes, Interpreting Folklore, 78. 44. Dundes, The Study of Folklore, 1. 45. Mackintosh, Around the Orkney Peat Fires, 183-184. 46. Ibid., 156-157. 47. Ibid., 168-170. 48. Ibid., 169. 49. Ibid., 169. 50. Dundes, Interpreting Folklore, 41. 51. Mackintosh, Around the Orkney Peat Fires, 160-162. 52. Ibid., 186-188. 53. Graham Seal, “The Robin Hood Principle: Folklore, History, and the Social Bandit,” Journal of Folklore Research, Volume 46, No. 1 (2009), 74. 54. Mackintosh, Around the Orkney Peat Fires, 170-172. 55. Ibid., 171. 56. Ibid., 171. 57. Ibid., 203-205. 58. Ibid., 204. 59. Ibid., 216. 60. Bruford, Tocher, 307. 61. Arthur Edmonston, A View of the Zetland Islands (Volume II) (1809), 82. 62. Ibid., 82. 63. Bascom, “Four Functions of Folklore,” 294. 64. Seal, “The Robin Hood Principle,” 74. 65. Mackintosh, Around the Orkney Peat Fires, 189-190. 66. Ibid., 190. 67. Ibid., 164-165. 68. Ibid., 180-181. 69. Bruford, Tocher, 317. 70. Mackintosh, Around the Orkney Peat Fires, 192-193. 71. Bascom, “Four Functions of Folklore,” 295. 72. Seal, “The Robin Hood Principle,” 69. 73. Bruford, Tocher, 303. 74. Mackintosh, Around the Orkney Peat Fires, 250-259. 75. Ibid., 250. 76. Gregor Lamb, Orcadiana (Kirkwall: Bellavista, 2004), 72. 77. Ibid., 73. 78. Briggs, A Dictionary of British Folktales, 324. 79. Erik Hobsbawm, Bandits (UK: Hachette, 2010), 7. 80. Seal, “The Robin Hood Principle,” 70. 81. Richard M. Dorson, “Current Folklore Theories,” Current Anthropology Volume 4, No. 1 (1963), 98. 82. Betty Wang, “Folksongs as Regulators of Politics,” in The Study of Folklore, ed. Alan Dundes, (New Jersey: Prentice-Hall Inc., 1965), 308.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN OLD NORSE DREAMSCAPES AND SEASCAPES OF WAR: “SIGRID STORRÅDA” (VALKYRIE) BY SELMA LAGERLÖF VICTORIA LESLEY RALPH

Introduction “Sigrid Storråda” is a short story in Drottningar i Kungahälla (The Queens of Kungahälla) by the Swedish author Selma Lagerlöf (18581940), who wrote sixteen novels and seven volumes of short stories and became the first woman to win the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1909. Her first novel, Gösta Berlings saga, was published in 1891 and set in Värmland, the province in which she grew up. Her Old Norse inspired works include a number of short stories and long narrative poems located in Bohuslän.1 Drottningar i Kungahälla comprises an Introduction entitled På Det Stora Kungahällas Grund and five short stories about different types of women: Skogsdrottningen (savage), “Sigrid Storråda” (valkyrie), Astrid (slave), Margareta Fredkulla (peace-woman) and Drottningen På Ragnhildsholmen (queen). As a pacifist and feminist who was active in the struggle for women‘s suffrage, Lagerlöf was critical of Heimskringla 2 by Snorri Sturluson (1179-1241) as an example of traditional male history that focused on wars and political events. Heimskringla consists of fifteen sagas of Norwegian kings in order of historical sequence, preceeded by Ynglinga saga that traces their legendary past. Excluding some powerful and prominent queens, women usually appear in a subordinate role in Snorri‘s history.3 By contrast, Lagerlöf’s aim in Drottningar i Kungahälla, according to Lagerroth in Selma Lagerlöf Och Bohuslän, En studie i hennes 90-talsdiktning, was “...att skriva om den tid och de tilldragelser

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Snorre berättar om, men inte från männens synvinkel utan från kvinnornas”4, “...to write about the period and the events of which Snorri tells us, not however from the perspective of the men but from that of the women.”5 Forsås-Scott also points out in “Selma Lagerlöf’s ‘Astrid’: Textual Strategy and Feminine Identity” that “Lagerlöf, according to a letter to Sophie Elkan dating from the end of May, 1899, planned Drottningar i Kungahälla as a series of short stories about different types of women: the savage, the valkyrie, the peace-maker, the queen and so on.” 6 The short story collection is located in Kungälv on the border of the west coast of Sweden, close to the sea, to the north of Göteborg, and at the point where the Göta älv river splits into the Nordre älv river. The two river branches are separated by the Island of Hisingen before they flow into the Nordre älv estuary. Lagerlöf got to know the area well through visits to family and friends, and walking excursions to sites of local historical interest, which included the burial grounds and rock carvings of Bohuslän that date to the Bronze and Iron Ages, and the ruins of the stronghold on Ragnhildsholmen.7 The area became her own personal landscape where she researched Kungälv’s medieval past, when it was known as Kungahälla and Bohuslän was part of Ranríki (Norway).8 På Det Stora Kungahällas Grund charts a lost historical space, where there are no remains to be found of the splendours of medieval Kungahälla 9 that lay at the mouth of the Göta älv,10 where Sigurðr jórsalafari “JerusalemFarer”, the Norwegian crusader king, built his royal castle and put a splinter of the Holy Cross in the Church to protect the land.11 The meeting place for the kings of Sweden, Denmark and Norway, and site of wars, peace summits and marriage unions described in Heimskringla12 has disappeared and been replaced by a Swedish rural idyll of a manor house, surrounded by green trees and red barns, that offers vistas of peace. Stougaard-Nielsen’s observations in Criminal Peripheries, on the Swedish artist Jonas Dahlberg’s memorial to the Utøya massacre (2011) entitled “Memory Wound”,13 can be applied to a reading of Kungahälla as a “guilty landscape”, for the former war-zone had turned into an idyllic, peaceful landscape. Bohuslän had been the site of border wars for centuries before the province was finally ceded to Sweden by the Peace of Roskilde in 1658. Lagerlöf retells Kungahälla’s warring past from feminist14 and pacifist perspectives to ensure that the memories, of which nature has obscured all traces, are not forgotten. Lagerlöf’s feminist narrative strategy in Drottningar i Kungahälla, includes writing a place for women in history, telling the female experience of war and exploring the representation of different types of women. Her pacifist narrative strategy involves cutting out descriptions of

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the battle drama in the Old Norse sources to concentrate on the aftermath, the suffering, the wreckage, the dead. The conflict of heathen15/Christian values in the Old Norse sources are used to question how pacifism and Christianity fit in with Viking violence, exploring themes of salvation and redemption. The Old Norse narratives of the “landscapes of war” are retold from feminist and pacifist perspectives, re-conceptualised as heathen/Christian landscapes of Heaven/Hell and re-mapped onto the actual geographical features of the Kungahälla area. To illustrate, the Göta and Nordre rivers are terrestial but are re-imagined as celestial or subterranean rivers, textually constructed devices mythically linking visions of Heaven as peace and Hell as war. “Sigrid Storråda” re-tells events surrounding the engagement of the heathen Swedish Queen Sigrid Storråda to the Christian Norwegian King Olaf Tryggvason, based on accounts of the ill-fated betrothal of their namesakes, Queen Sigríðr in stórráða to King Óláfr Tryggvason, in versions of Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar16 by Snorri Sturluson and Oddr Snorrason. Just as Schama conceives of “landscape as a text on which generations write their recurring obsessions” in Landscape and Memory,17 the landscapes, dreamscapes and seascapes of war in “Sigrid Storråda” can be read as layered palimpsestic18 texts, through which a heathen mythic underlayer is revealed. The mythical layer is developed through the invention of a bridal voyage for Storråda up the Nordre river to meet King Olaf in Kungahälla that echoes the mythical Brynhild’s journey to Hel, the Old Norse place of the dead, the only place where she can become Sigurd’s bride, a role denied to her in life, as narrated in the Eddic poem Helreið Brynhildar “Brynhild’s Ride to Hell”. Schama points out the ancient analogy between the circulation of rivers and the bloodstream and underlying core beliefs that underpin the celebration of the Resurrection in the springtime rebirth of the world.19 The Nordre river is creatively reimagined as a subterranean river at the border of an Old Norse Hel, and used as a mythical linking device to join the two narrative frames of the story. The temporality of a heathen spring linked to Storråda‘s bridal voyage to Hel in the first part of the story is connected with the events of Easter week, through a dreamscape narrative in the second part of the story that can be interpreted as an inner soulscape, King Olaf’s penitential journey to the Red Sea, the waters of Salvation, followed by his ascent to Heaven. The textual construction of palimpsestic heathen/Christian–scapes reflect ideas, personal characteristics, dreams, symbols and cultural values associated with heathen and Christian beliefs. The suffix –scapes is my own invention to describe the different landscape spaces in “Sigrid Storråda”

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that are both actual and symbolical, objective and subjective, external and internal. For example, the external–scapes are the actual geographical features of the Göta älv and Nordre älv that are used as settings. Lagerlöf’s re-imagined Kungahälla is based on representations of Konungahella in the Old Norse texts. The locations in the harbour, Royal Palace and Church of the Virgin are loosely built on Snorri’s detailed topographical descriptions of Konungahella in chapters 19 and 32 of Magnússona saga and his account of the destruction of Kungahälla by the heathen Wends in Magnúss saga blinda ok Haralds gilla. The dreamscape is a narrative device to explore the submerged aftermath of the famous, Old Norse seabattle of Sv۠lðr in an unreal, underwater setting suggestive of a dream, to reveal the inner landscape of King Olaf’s mind.20 This Chapter asks why it is relevant to discuss and understand Lagerlöf’s representation of Storråda as valkyrie, and why this role needs to be understood through her interaction with the textual construction of palimpsestic heathen/Christian landscapes, dreamscapes and seascapes of war.

Old Norse Sources Lagerlöf’s Sigrid Storråda (valkyrie) is modelled on her mighty namesake Sigríðr in stórráða in versions of Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar,21 in which her role can be interpreted as that of a literary representation of female paganism constructed in opposition to the Christian male in a Christian textual context. She is presented by Oddr and Snorri as haughty, avaricious and vengeful. They both give accounts of the episode when she burns to death two petty kings who are unwanted suitors, and becomes known as Sigríðr in stórráða (of the Great Undertakings). King Óláfr’s betrothal to Queen Sigríðr is broken off when she discovers that his gold engagement ring is really made of gilt iron. When marriage proposals resume, King Óláfr travels east to Koungahella in the early spring for a meeting with Queen Sigríðr to discuss nuptial arrangements. However, an angry King Óláfr calls off their wedding when the heathen Sigríðr refuses to convert to Christianity, and he slaps her in the face with his glove. Sigríðr seeks revenge for this insult when she later incites her new husband, King Sveinn of Denmark, to go into battle against King Óláfr. She thus plays a part in events that lead to the sea-battle of Sv۠lðr, in which King Óláfr is defeated and loses his life. Old Norse accounts of the battle of Sv۠lðr by Snorri and Oddr include a long narrative build-up of events leading to the final combat and vivid descriptions of the battle drama. Both authors include reports of King Óláfr’s survival when he

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leaps overboard and swims to safety. Oddr adds that the King later served God in a monastery to repent his Viking youth. 22 Lagerlöf also re-uses heathen/Christian imagery and symbolism from two Old Norse dreams, reinterpreted by Albert Ulrik Bååth in NordmannaMystik: Bilder Fran Nordens Forntid (1898), that mixes texts from Old Norse literature with folklore. Bååth distinguishes between heathen and Christian dreams in the chapter entitled “Olika slag af drömmar” (different types of dreams). Bååth gives Óláfr Tryggvason’s dream vision of Heaven and Hell as an example of a Christian dream from the first blessing of King Óláfr Tryggvason.23 Bååth relates that, in the dream, Heaven and Hell open up before the King, who is called upon to accept Christianity, and that he ascends great stone pillars. From these heights, where there are charming flowers and radiant angels, he looks down into the deep, at the souls in torment, whom he recognises as chiefs and friends who have put their trust in heathen gods. The King is so strongly affected by this sight that, when he awakes, his eyes are filled with tears.24 .....han stiga ned för pelaren, men i detsamma fick han se där långt nere i djupet många fasanvärda ställen....Och han tyckte sig ibland dem igenkänna många af de höfdingar och vänner, som satt sin lit till hedna gudar.25 ....he stepped down from the pillars, but at that very moment he saw there far down in the depths many terrible places....And in the midst of them he thought he recognised many of the chieftains and friends, who had put their trust in heathen gods.

Lagerroth refers to this account of an Old Norse dream in Bååth’s Nordmanna-Mystik and identifies that it has the same ending as Lagerlöf’s story. Selma Lagerlöf kunde i Bååth’s 1898 utkomma Nordmanna-Mystik läsa om alla slags drömmar i den fornisländska litteraturen, därav en dröm Olav Tryggvason hade, som grep denne så, “att när han vaknade, hans ögon voro fulla af tårar ” – samma slut alltså som i Sigrid Storråda.26 In Bååth’s recently published Nordmanna-Mystik, Selma Lagerlöf could read about all types of dreams in the Old Norse literature, hence a dream Olaf Tryggvason had, that moved him so, “that when he woke, his eyes were full of tears” – the same ending then as in Sigrid Storråda.

The second Old Norse dream from which Lagerlöf reinterprets imagery in Nordmanna-Mystik is that of Bååth’s folkloristically inspired representation

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of the two dream women in Gísla saga as two dream huldras, “två drömhuldror”.27 Bååth relates that the outlawed Gisli Sursson had two dream women, one evil and one good, who fought against each other in his dreams and acquired their traits both from the heathen representation of valkyries and the Christian symbols of good and bad angels.28

Heathen/Christian Landscapes This section analyses how the textual construction of heathen/Christian –scapes function as narrative devices to mirror and magnify the heathen/Christian dichotomy in Lagerlöf’s humorous retelling of events surrounding the engagement of the heathen Swedish Queen Sigrid Storråda to the Christian Norwegian King Olaf Tryggvason, that is based on Old Norse accounts of the disastrous betrothal of their namesakes. Snorri gives brief topographical and temporal information in chapter 61 of Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar in Heimskringla that King Óláfr went east to Konungahella for a meeting with Queen Sigríðr early in the spring to discuss their marriage. Whereas Snorri gives no details of how either of them travelled to their destination, Lagerlöf invents a bridal voyage for Storråda up the Nordre älv to Kungahälla. As Lagerlöf’s heathen Queen sets sail, the surrounding environment turns green, reflecting signs of life in a heathen spring. In contrast, the wintry landscapes of snow and ice are identified with death and Christianity. The reference to Lady Annunciation Day (25th March) makes a temporal link to the Christian liturgical calendar. När Storråda talade om, att hon skulle börja rusta ut sina skepp, försvann isen från fjärdarna, ängsmarken började grönska, och fästan det ännu var långt före vårfrudag, kunde boskapen sändas på bete. And when Storråda spoke about getting her ships ready, the ice disappeared from the fiords, the meadows began to grow green, and though it was long before Lady Day the cattle could be turned out to pasturage.29

As Storråda sails between the islands of East Gothland into the Baltic, cuckoos call from the cliffs; although it is so early in the season, one could scarcely hope to hear the song of the lark. The sight of her ship signifies joy, and the hope of return for heathen land-spirits exiled from a Christianised Norway, who personify the course of events in nature in a magical-mythical, Old Norse worldview and provide the magic power to help the heathen Queen on her journey. For example, in contrary winds, ugly trolls rise from the deep and yoke themselves like horses to her ship

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with seaweed in their mouths. Her human helpers include the wildest Vikings, whom Olaf would not suffer to remain in Norway because of their wickedness, and the heathens who live along the coast and pile wood on stone altars and sacrifice sheep and goats to ancient gods. Lagerlöf weaves in imagery from folktales to reflect a transition period between heathen/Christian beliefs and moral values from the period when Christianity was introduced to Norway by King Óláfr Tryggvason (c. 9951000 AD). She may have gained inspiration for some of her imagery from a folktale inserted in Oddr’s Saga Óláfs tryggvasonar, that is reinterpreted by Bååth as “King Olof and the Norwegian trolls” in his NordmannaMystik, and describes how heathen trolls in Naumudalr, who are plotting against King Óláfr, are driven away from the land when it is sprinkled with holy water by the King and his bishop.30 The heathen shorescapes also reflect the Queen’s characteristics. Her avarice is displayed when she sails by Kullaberg and the Kullaman comes out of his cavern. Och han lät det svarta berget öppna sig, så att hon såg hur guld- och silverådror löpte fram där inne och fägnades åt hans rikedom. He caused the black mountain to open so that she saw how it was traversed by gold and silver veins within, and was delighted at the sight of his wealth.31

In her role as a huldra, or femme-fatale, of the mountains, her abilities to entice/seduce are indicated when a mermaid stretches out her white arm to hand Storråda a large pearl, so that King Olaf will be bewitched by her beauty. When Storråda arrives in the great city of Kungahälla, the clash of heathen/Christian values reverberates through two soundscapes. The Viking ship-building site on the shore is a discordant percussion of hammering and clattering and noisy loading of heavy cargoes, whereas the Church of the Virgin resounds with bell-ringing and the harmonious sounds of melodious singing. The conflict of heathen/Christian beliefs in the mind of King Olaf are projected onto two images of women (one evil and one good), aligned with profane heathen or sacred Christian spaces. His inner psychological/spiritual struggle becomes a mindscape in which he contrasts the evil pagan Valkyrie-Queen, who flaunts her wealth on her ship in the materialistic harbour, with his vision of the good Christian Virgin Mary, who stands on spiritual ground in the poverty-stricken Church of the Virgin. Storråda relates to the King how she had burnt to death two inferior kings who had wooed her. She lures him with her

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beauty and distracts him from Christian prayer with pagan music. When the vesper bell rings, Storråda summons her bard, who sings the song of Brunhild,32 who had had Sigurd Fafnisbane put to death. King Olaf does not go to the church but looks at her majestic eyes and strongly marked black eyebrows. He sees that Storråda is Brunhild and that she will kill him if he betrays her and that she would be a woman who would burn herself with him on the same funeral pyre. While the priests read Mass and pray in the Church of the Virgin, King Olaf thinks that he would like to ride to Valhalla with Storråda before him on the horse. The Church of the Virgin becomes a narrative mirror of the King’s spiritual crisis. As he crosses the market-place, the bells are ringing and the church doors are wide open to amplify the beautiful singing, but he hears nothing and the bells stop, the singing ceases and the lights go out. The silence and sudden darkness can be interpreted as a warning of the power of the dark forces outside, of what will happen if the King marries a heathen Queen. For example, supernatural creatures, who had fled from Norway when Christianity was introduced, were returning in droves on the overnight ferry over the Göta älv. But the low and gloomy Church with the turf roof also imitates his inner darkness. He returns to the light of his Christian faith after sighting a poor woman at the Church door, who looks like a religious statue come to life, a Madonna figure, wearing a red kirtle and blue shawl, who lovingly carries a fair-haired child on her arm. Lagerlöf’s theatrically-inspired reinterpretation of the final parting scene of Storråada and King Olaf, set in the harbour at Kungahälla, is practically a burlesque retelling of the Old Norse accounts of Storråda’s refusal to convert to Christianity. Storråada is depicted as an evil, pagan woman, who resembles a glittering snake mounting guard over her treasures like a repulsive dragon. Haki Antonsson points out that “the twinning of Satan/Anti-Christ and sins with dragons or serpents is, of course, a commonplace in Christian thought, which is reflected in scripture in, among other texts, the Book of Revelations, for example 12.9, 20.2.”33 As Storråda descends from her ship bearing tempting gifts, the woman from the Church, who can only be seen by King Olaf, appears in the background. When Storråada asks him what he is looking at so eagerly, the King sees the woman from the Church turn towards the town while two golden circles of light are kindled above her head and that of the child. The King regards Storråada as old, ugly and sinful and is shocked to think that he could have fallen into her net. He has taken off his glove to give her his hand, but now takes the glove and strikes her in the face with it.

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As she ascends into her ship, Lagerlöf’s Storråda turns as pale as the Hel of Old Norse Myth, a female heathen personification of the Realm of the Dead and goddess of the Underworld.

Dreamscapes and Seascapes of War Whereas Snorri and Oddr paint a powerful and dramatic picture of the sea-battle fought on the surface of the water, Lagerlöf explores its submerged aftermath from the perspective of King Olaf as a dead man lying at the bottom of a sea that is red with blood. This section discusses how Lagerlöf reinterprets what happened to King Óláfr after he plunged into the water, in a dream of Redemption for a sinful Viking king who introduced Christianity into Norway often with brutal force. Nästa natt drömde kung Olof en sällsam dröm.Vad han såg framför sig, var inte jorden, utan havsbottnen. Det var en gröngrå mark, över vilken vattnet stod många famnar högt. Han såg fiskar simma efter rov, skeppen såg han glida förbi uppe på vattenytan some märka moln, och solskivan såg han blänka matt som en blek måne. The next night King Olaf dreamed a strange dream. What he saw before him was not the earth, but the bottom of the sea. It was a greenish-grey ground, above which the waters stood many fathoms deep. He saw fishes swimming after their prey, ships gliding above on the surface of the water like dark clouds, and beheld the disk of the sun faintly glimmering like a pale moon.35

Snorri and Oddr used the imagery of bright sunshine to set the scene for the battle, to contrast the clear weather conditions with the confusion over the identification of King Óláfr Tryggvason´s great ships. By contrast, Lagerlöf conveys the viewpoint of a drowning man who sees ships from below the surface, while the sun gleams like a moon as a sign to mark the King’s passage to death. Lagerlöf re-interprets heathen/Christian symbolism and imagery in Bååth’s re-telling of Óláfr’s dream vision of Heaven and Hell into her new version of King Olaf’s dream of Heaven

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and Hell from a pacifist perspective, that incorporates a vision of Heaven as peace and war as Hell. For example, Lagerlöf re-uses the imagery of the columns that form a symbolic stairway to Heaven from the Old Norse dream. Her dreaming King sees the woman from the Church in Kungahälla walking at the bottom of the sea, while the waters part before her and rise up to form a roof, that consolidates into columns like a magnificent temple. The symbolism of a sea that is reddened with the blood of war as a vision of Hell changes symbolic meaning throughout King Olaf’s dream of Heaven and Hell that can be interpreted as his penitential journey to the Red Sea, the waters of Salvation, followed by his ascent to white-coloured Heaven as a vision of peace. The imagery of the souls in torment in the deep, who had put their trust in heathen gods from the Old Norse dream, is reinterpreted in Lagerlöf’s hellish depiction of a seabed strewn with dead bodies, imagery that can be read as the corpses of sinners who have sunk down into Hell. The diabolical picture of submerged battle-wreckage links in once again with Christian imagery of Satan and sin as dragons or serpents in the descriptions of thick ropes, coiled like snakes, and ships with their sides split, while the gilded dragons’ heads, which had adorned their sterns, stare at the King with red, threatening eyes. The dreaming King now recognises himself as the dead man in the red tunic and shining helmet with a shield fastened to his arm. The woman from the Church bends over him and whispers in his ear that Storråda has sent her fleet against him and taken vengeance. She questions if he regrets suffering the bitterness of death because he chose her and not Storråda. Together they ascend a symbolic Christian stairway to Heaven to a white, celestial, pleasure garden in the clouds, where she transforms into a radiant, celestial angel. King Olaf is filled with joy that he has chosen to serve the fair Queen of Heaven, when he awakes and feels that his cheeks are wet with tears, and lies there with his hands folded in prayer. Lagerlöf also re-uses Bååth’s folkloristically inspired representation of the outlawed Gisli Sursson’s two dream women in Gísla saga as two dream huldras “två drömhuldror”, one evil and one good, who fought against each other in his dreams and acquired their traits both from the heathen representation of valkyries and the Christian symbols of good and bad angels. In the King’s dream, Storråda has taken vengeance and determined his Fate, but she combines her role as valkyrie, who selects the slain in battle for the Norse god Odin in Valhalla, where the warriors train for the final battle of Ragnarök, with that of a bad Christian angel, who loses or makes him lose the battle for his soul to his good dream woman/the King’s vision of the Virgin Mary from the Church in Kungahälla.

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The Role of Storråda as Valkyrie in the Dreamscapes and Seascapes of War Both Lagerroth and Mjöberg have analysed “Sigrid Storråda” as a Christian legend.36 Lagerroth concludes that it ...är en komposition över hednisk mytologi och kristen legend37 “…is a composition about heathen mythology and Christian legend”. In Drömmen om sagatiden, Mjöberg also comes to the same conclusion: I en dröm återser Olof den bedrövade kvinnan, himladrottningen själv, och upplever att han för alltid valt jungfru Maria och kristendomen i stället för Storråda och Valhall. Berättelsen om Sigrid Storråda och Olof Trggvason blir alltså en legend, en skönmålning av en konung som nog allmänt anses ha varit en ganska ytlig kristen.38 Olof sees the distressed woman again in a dream, the Queen of Heaven herself, and acknowledges that he has chosen forever the Virgin Mary and Christianity instead of Storråda and Valhalla. The short story about Sigrid Storråada also becomes a legend, an idealisation of a king who no doubt has been considered quite a superficial Christian.

This reading of “Sigrid Storråda” sees the King as the main character and does not pay enough attention to an exploration of the role of Storråda as a valkyrie-type and the innovative and subversive elements in the story. Lagerlöf’s pacifist criticism of war is conveyed through the innovative use of a dreamscape, that subverts Old Norse accounts of the drama of the battle of Sv۠lðr by overturning the seascape to concentrate on the submerged wreckage and the dead. The hellish aftermath of the battle of Sv۠lðr is seen from below the surface of the water, from the perspective of King Olaf as a dead man lying at the bottom of the sea. Moreover, the famous Old Norse sea-battle, fought either on an island in the Baltic or in the mouth of a river in Vinðland in the Old Norse sources, is re-located by her, through the use of the dream sequence, to Kungahälla, to the mouth of the Nordre river. The feminist critique in the dream sequence is explored through the subversive idea of the attributes of the valkyrie Brunhild in her manifestation as Storråada as controller of men’s fates. The dream shows two women on the battlefield fighting for the soul of King Olaf and both of them can be seen to shape his destiny. The feminist narrative strategy in “Sigrid Storråda” concentrates on the representation of Storråda as a valkyrie-type, whose role can be understood through analysis of her interaction with the textual construction of palimpsestic heathen/Christian–scapes that reveal a mythic layer. Lagerlöf’s

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Storråda is represented as a composite valkyrie, as huldra-temptress, evil, pagan woman, heathen witch, female inciter of war and controller of men’s fates. Her role incorporates facets of three Old Norse female mythological figures that are aligned to the landscapes of Hell and/or war. The first is the legendary Brynhild, the “War-lady in the helmet”, a female, pagan, martial figure who journeys to Hel, the Old Norse place of the dead, in the Eddic poem Helreið Brynhildar. The second is the goddess of the Underworld and female embodiment of Hel as the place of the heathen dead. The third is a divine figure who chooses the slain in battle for the god Odin in a heathen Valhalla. In many respects, Lagerlöf’s re-telling is instructional, since she shows the reader that Storråda is constructed as an evil, heathen woman through the eyes of King Olaf who sees her as Brunhild. In this way she links two female archetypes or stereotypes from Old Norse heathen and Christian traditions – the valkyrie and female inciter. Jóhanna Katrín Friðriksdóttir points out in Women in Old Norse Literature: Bodies, Words and Power that: There are two opposite schools of thought as to how the female inciter is a reflection of medieval reality: at one end of the spectrum there are those who consider the female inciter purely a literary construct with no historical basis, imaginative creations by misogynous medieval authors who made her the scapegoat of men’s violent deeds. At the other end are scholars who believe that she reflects a real, historical role for women, approved by the hegemonic social order.39

Heinrichs refers to the deep structure of a Brynhildr-type, whose traits show in the characterisation of Sigríðr in stórráða.40 In “Sigrid Storråda” Lagerlöf has explored the archetypal roots and traced the development of the popular valkrie type, where the name of Brunhild is used as a blueprint for the warlike woman.

Notes 1. See “De fågelfrie”, “Reors saga” and “Stenkumlet” in Osynliga länkar (1897), En vårstorm (1894 and 1898), Kungahällas fall (1894) and Drottningar i Kungahälla (1899; The Queens of Kungahälla). 2. Lagerroth cites that Lagerlöf used Peter A Munch’s 1859 Norwegian translation of Heimskringla (49, 88, 126, 298, 323 and 326). The author‘s ongoing research into Margareta Fredkulla has recently established that she also used Hans Hildebrand’s 1889 Swedish translation of Snorri Sturluson‘s Heimskringla. 3. For a full discussion refer to Else Mundal, “Women in Sagas,” in Medieval Scandinavia: An Encyclopedia, eds. Philip Pulsiano et al. (New York: London: Garland 1992), 723-725.

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4. Erland Lagerroth, “Sigrid Storråda,” in Selma Lagerlöf Och Bohuslän, En studie i hennes 90-talsdiktning (Lund: Gleerups Förlag, 1963), 92. 5. English translation by Helena Forsås-Scott taken from Helena Forsås-Scott, “Selma Lagerlöf’s ‘Astrid’: Textual Strategy and Feminine Identity,” in A Century of Swedish Narrative: Essays in Honour of Karin Petherick, eds. Sarah Death, and Helena Forsås-Scott (Norwich: Norvik Press, 1994), 63-74. 6. Forsås-Scott, “Selma Lagerlöf’s Astrid,” 67. 7. Constructed in the 1250s by order of the Norwegian King Håkon IV Håkonsson (1223-1263) and replaced in 1308 by command of King Håkon V Magnusson (1299-1319) with the Bohus fortress that was relocated to Kungälv at the splitting point of the Göta and Nordre älv rivers. 8. Lagerroth, “Sigrid Storråda,”18-34. 9. Known in Old Norse as Konungahella. 10. Known in Old Norse as the Gautelfr (Gaut elf river). 11. Chapters 19 and 32 in Magnússona saga in Heimskringla. 12. Óláfs saga trgyvassonar, Óláfs saga Helga, Magnúss saga Berfoetts Magnússona saga and Magnúss saga blinda ok Haralds gilla in Heimskringla. 13. Jakob Stougaard-Nielsen, “Criminal Peripheries” (paper presented at SASS Conference, Yale, March 13-15, 2014). The terrorist attacks on the government quarters in Oslo and the Workers‘s Youth League summer camp on the island of Utøya took place on 22nd July, 2011 and claimed 77 lives. 14. Shari Benstock, Suzanne Ferriss, and Susanne Woods, eds. A Handbook of Literary Feminisms (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002) defines feminism(s) in the Glossary as “Political positions assuming that women’s status in culture had been devalued and misrepresented.” See page 236. 15. Hilda R. Ellis Davidson, Gods and Myths of Northern Europe (Baltimore: Penguin books, 1964), 14, defines Northern heathenism as the pre-Christian beliefs of the Germanic and Scandinavian peoples that came to an end in the eleventh century. Heathen or pagan religions were polytheistic, involving the worship of many gods and included beliefs that landscape features (trees, rocks etc.) in the natural world were infused with supernatural power. 16. Snorri Sturluson´s Óláfs saga tryggvasonar in Heimskringla and Oddr Snorrasson´s Saga Óláfs tryggvasonar. “Oddr Snorasson wrote a life of Óláfr Tryggvason (c.1190) which was originally in Latin but soon translated into Icelandic. Oddr manages to make his hero a near-saint and his work a nearhagiography...” See Diana Whaley, Heimskringla: An Introduction (London: Viking Society For Northern Research, 1991). 17. Simon Schama, Landscape and Memory (London: Harper Collins Publishers, 1995), 12. 18. The imagery of a palimpsest where old writing has been rubbed out to make way for new is used to conceptualise the process of transformation when a heathen oral culture was redefined in an age of manuscript writing and Christianity. 19. Schama, Landscape and Memory, 247. 20. The battle of Sv۠lðr is vividly described in Snorri’s Óláfs saga tryggvasonar and Oddr’s Saga Óláfs tryggvasonar and reinterpreted by Lagerlöf re-using symbolism and imagery from Albert Ulrik Bååth’s re-telling of Óláfr Tryggvason’s

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dream vision of Heaven and Hell in Albert Ulrik Bååth, Nordmanna-Mystik: Bilder Från Nordens Forntid (Stockholm: Beijers, 1898). 21. Lagerlöf’s source texts were Munch’s 1859 Norwegian translation and Hildebrand’s 1889 Swedish translation of Snorri Sturluson‘s Óláfs saga tryggvasonar in Heimskringla. It is also very likely that Lagerlöf used N. M. Petersen’s Danish translation of Olaf Trggvesøns Saga af Odd Munk in Fornmanner søgur (1836). Bjarne Thorup Thomsen, “Text and Transnational Terrain, 1888-1918,” in Re-Mapping Lagerlöf: Performance, Intermediality, and European Transmissions, eds. Helena Forsås-Scott, Lisbeth Stenberg, and Bjarne Thorup Thomsen (Lund: Nordic Academic Press, 2014), discusses Lagerlöf’s close connection to the Danish capital of Copenhagen when she lived and worked as a schoolteacher from 1885 in the southern Swedish coastal town of Landskrona. Lagerroth also refers to her knowledge of Danish translations of the Icelandic sagas. 22. Chapter 78 of Oddr’s Saga Óláfs tryggvasonar. 23. Albert Ulrik Bååth, Nordmanna-Mystik: Bilder Fran Nordens Forntid (Stockholm: Beijers, 1898). Versions of Óláfr Tryggvason’s dream vision of Heaven and Hell are found in Óláfs Saga Tryggvasonar En Mesta (The Greatest or Longest Saga of Óláfs Trggvasson) and Oddr’s Saga Óláfs tryggvasonar. Bååth does not explicitly state which version was used for his Swedish translation. 24, Bååth Nordmanna-Mystik, 201-203. 25. Ibid., 203. 26. Lagerroth, “Sigrid Storråda,” 86. 27. The folkloristic definition of a huldra is a wicked, alluring siren inhabiting hills and mountains (beautiful in appearance but with a long, cowlike tail). The poetic interpretation is that of any beautiful, alluring woman or femme-fatale. Einar Haugen, Norsk-Engelsk Ordbok (Norwegian-English Dictionary). Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 1996, 187. 28. Bååth, Nordmanna-Mystik, 199-201. 29. Two editions used: Selma Lagerlöf, Drottningar i Kungahälla, Sjunde Upplagen (Stockholm, Albert Bonniers Förlag, 1911) and Selma Lagerlöf, The Queens of Kungahälla, trans. C. Field (The Eclectic Library, T Werner Laurie Ltd, 1930). Swedish text page 20; English text page 45. 30. Bååth, Nordmanna-Mystik, 70-74. 31. Lagerlöf, Drottningar i Kungahälla, 20; Lagerlöf, The Queens of Kungahälla, 45. 32. The song of Brunhild appears to be a Lagerlöf invention. Brynhild is a female martial figure and valkyrie who appears in Eddic heroic poems and legends about the Völsungs (including Völsunga saga). She has sworn to marry the man who penetrates the wall of flames that circle the hall where she sleeps on top of a mountain. Sigurd gets through the flame wall disguised as Gunnarr and sleeps with Brynhild who marries Gunnarr. In revenge, Brynhild has Sigurd put to death when she discovers his deception and in grief throws herself onto Sigurd’s funeral pyre. 33. Haki Antonsson, “ Salvation and Early Saga Writing in Iceland: Aspects of the Works of the Þingeyrar Monks and their Associates,” Viking and Medieval Scandinavia (Brepols, 2012), 86.

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34. Lagerlöf, Drottningar i Kungahälla, 27; Lagerlöf, The Queens of Kungahälla, 63. 35. Lagerlöf, Drottningar i Kungahälla, 28; Lagerlöf, The Queens of Kungahälla, 64. 36. At the time of writing this article there are only two known scholarly studies of “Sigrid Storråda”. 37. Lagerroth, “Sigrid Storråda,” 85. 38. Jöran Mjöberg, Drömmen om sagatiden (Stockholm: Natur och Kultur, Berlingska Boktryckeriet, 1967-1988), 430-431. 39. Jóhanna Katrín Friðriksdóttir, Women in Old Norse Literature: Bodies, Words and Power (NY: Palgrave MacMillan, 2013), 19-20. 40. Anne Heinrichs, “Annat er várt eðli: the type of the prepatriarchal woman in Old Norse literature,” in Structure and Meaning in Old Norse Literature: New Approaches to Textual Analysis and Literary Criticism, eds. John Lindow, et. al., (Odense: Odense University Press Heinrichs, 1986), 110-40. . .

CHAPTER FOURTEEN ISLANDS OF SIGNIFICANCE: AUTHENTICITY AND VISITOR EXPERIENCE AT THE HEART OF NEOLITHIC ORKNEY WORLD HERITAGE SITE ESTHER RENWICK

Introduction Since its inception in 1972, the United Nations Educational and Scientific Council (UNESCO) World Heritage Convention has adapted to reflect both changing global concerns and the development of concepts within World Heritage, conservation and heritage management. The World Heritage List is based upon the definition of outstanding universal value (OUV) by the Operational Guidelines. Sites nominated for inscription must be of “common importance for present and future generations of all humanity”.1 Within this concept, authenticity was initially seen as an issue of conservation, primarily concerned with design, material, workmanship and setting. However, the Nara Document on Authenticity (International Council on Monuments and Sites, ICOMOS, 1994) acknowledged the need to widen these definitions to include intangible heritage such as traditions, techniques, language and spirit and feeling of the sites.2 The importance of intangible heritage was further recognised by the Convention for the Safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural Heritage (UNESCO, 2003). Definitions of authenticity have since been taken further in the Quebec Declaration on Spirit of Place (ICOMOS, 2008) and the Paris Declaration on Heritage as a Driver of Development (ICOMOS, 2011).

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This Chapter is based upon ongoing research into authenticity in visitor experience at UK cultural World Heritage Sites (WHS), exploring the concept set out in the 2011 Paris Declaration: To put authenticity at the heart of the development the growth of interpretation and communication interpretation based on sound research and manufactured “travels in hyperreality” that are heritage values.3

of cultural tourism and strategies; to promote inventories, avoiding crudely derived from

In order to comment on the authenticity of any WHS cultural tourism experience, a logical first step is to re-examine the outstanding universal value for which the site was inscribed. The Heart of Neolithic Orkney (HONO) was inscribed in 1999 and consists of the Ring of Brodgar and Stones of Stenness stone circles, Maeshowe chambered tomb, the single standing stones called the Watch Stone and the Barnhouse Stone, and Skara Brae, an exceptionally wellpreserved, late Neolithic village. The WHS was inscribed under criteria (i), (ii), (iii) and (iv), as an outstanding testimony to the cultural achievements of the Neolithic people of Northern Europe (UNESCO, 2014). Criterion (i): represent a masterpiece of human creative genius. Criterion (ii): exhibit an important interchange of human values, over a span of time or within a cultural area of the world, on developments in architecture or technology, monumental arts, town-planning or landscape design. Criterion (iii): bear a unique or at least exceptional testimony to a cultural tradition or to a civilization which is living or which has disappeared. Criterion (iv): be an outstanding example of a type of building or architectural or technological ensemble or landscape which illustrates (a) significant stage(s) in human history.”

Together, the sites in Orkney demonstrate the domestic, ritual and burial practices of a now-vanished 5000-year-old culture with exceptional completeness (UNESCO, 2014). The outstanding universal value of the site recognises its authenticity as reaching beyond the exceptional preservation and structural integrity of the sites to include the location, setting and interrelationships of the Stenness-Brodgar monuments. This acknowledges the importance of the settings “which define the modern experience of the site and seem to be inextricably linked to the reasons for its development and use in prehistory”.4

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The HONO presents a particularly interesting case study to examine visitor perceptions in parallel with current archaeological conceptualisations. In recent years, archaeological perspectives on islands have changed, increasingly recognising them as innovative and dynamic locales which may have had far wider significance than previously realised, with the sea forming a route-way rather than a boundary.5 Paying particular attention to the maritime aspect of life in the Orcadian Neolithic and early Bronze Age, this Chapter looks firstly at current archaeological interpretations of how HONO sites may have been experienced by the people who built and used them. Secondly, it considers the “authenticity” of the current visitor experience and the “spirit of place” (ICOMOS, 2008) at the HONO and the future aspirations of its World Heritage Site Management Plan.

Landscapes and Seascapes: Current Archaeological Conceptualisations of the HONO Between c.3400 and c.2150 BC, a sophisticated monument complex including Maeshowe, the Stones of Stenness, the Ness of Brodgar and the Ring of Brodgar, was constructed on an isthmus between the Lochs of Stenness and Harray. Nearby, immediately adjacent to the Stones of Stenness, the settlement of Barnhouse was constructed, and approximately 9 km away another settlement was also being constructed at Skara Brae. Lowland Orkney during the late Neolithic was characterised by arable farming, low-intensity grazing and declining birch-hazel scrubland.6 The Stenness-Brodgar area is a low-lying piece of land set within a natural bowl of hills and dominated by the Lochs of Harray and Stenness. The settlement at Skara Brae is now situated immediately beside the sea due to sea level rise and coastal erosion; however, during the late Neolithic it would have been situated beside a coastal lagoon further inland. Although reliance on marine resources appears to have declined from the Mesolithic, the people of the Neolithic, especially those living in the Isles, would probably have interacted with the sea on a daily basis, seeing it not as an “other”, but as a normal and vital part of their daily lives.7 Before the advent of metalled roads, travel by water was commonly the most efficient and convenient mode of journeying, particularly in the case of the complex archipelagos of the Northern Isles.

Architecture and Cosmology Current thinking suggests that the focus of the Stenness-Brodgar complex was the Ness of Brodgar.8 Processional routes may have linked

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an approach running between the Lochs of Stenness and Harray, through the Ring of Brodgar and past the Stones of Stenness, arriving at the Ness of Brodgar in the centre of the isthmus, the setting of the complex being between two bodies of water within a bowl of hills, at a place where the land meets the water and they both meet the sky.9 This reflects the significance of the elements, the transformation and the categorisation of space and time during the period of their construction and use.10 Today the Loch of Stenness is a sea loch, however, prior to c.1440-1270 BC, it was a freshwater or lagoonal loch,11 although sea access was probably still fairly easy from its southern end. This would have allowed a third point of access via a short portage between the sea and the loch, a water route broken by land. From the south-east, the landward route would have been broken by water, or at least a very wet strip of land. This has been compared to the River Avon breaking the route between Stonehenge and Durrington.12 The sea passage reflects the same elements, passing the dramatic cliffs of Hoy on the approach, where the land towers out of the sea forming a significant landmark and no doubt a navigational aid. Seen from this perspective, the monuments become visible as an intermediary between the landscape of Orkney and the Atlantic and North Sea waterways.13 Internally, the late Neolithic houses and tombs follow an architectural code linking the ritual and domestic, the dead and the living.14 This is echoed by the design of the stone circles,15 concealing, revealing and wrapping spaces in a very deliberate manner. The device of wrapping spaces also reflects the landscape context of the sites, enclosed by the ring of hills, with water on either side. The shape of the henges echo the surrounding topography.16 Peat formation in the base of the ditch at Maeshowe, and the speed with which the rock-cut, henge ditches fill up with water on excavation, suggests that they echoed the landscape even more effectively, the natural filling of the ditches with water creating an island from each monument.17 The ditch at Maeshowe (see Figure 14.1) is only partially dug; the northern side is an illusion, created by lower-lying ground, which becomes easily waterlogged, indicating that the emphasis was on visually surrounding the monument with water rather than the presence of a physical ditch.18 Water was used to wrap sites, referencing the waterscape in which the inhabitants lived, where engagement with the lochs and sea occurred on a daily basis. The location of the two stone circles on higher ground surrounded by water-filled ditches created a social and topographical microcosm of a world where water was both a division and a conduit. The monument complex is located in the best place in Orkney to achieve this repeated effect of wrapping with water.19

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Figure 14.1 M Maeshowe Chaambered Tomb. This is part off the monumen nt complex set in a landdscape wrappeed by water and hills (copyyright Stephen Renwick, permission grranted).

Journeying,, Creation and a Transfformation Excavatiion at the Stonnes of Stennesss and the Rinng of Brodgar indicates that these m monuments were w not built as a single pphase of construction; instead theyy represent diistinct events which may tthemselves reepresent a focus for gaatherings and celebrations. The locationn of this comp plex on a major routee-way, accessible by land and sea, sugggests that it was not created for, or by, a singlle local comm munity.20 Insteead, the sites may m have been a focuss for pilgrimaage, bringing different d grouups together, creating c a network off traditions and signifiicance that override co ommunity boundaries. The lithologgy of the Rin ng of Brodgaar stones supp ports this concept: speecific groupinngs of stones come c from sinngle, separate quarries, suggesting that a diffferent Orcadiian communnity may haave been responsible for each grouup. Excavation at the Stonnes of Stennesss reveals that this w was probably never a co omplete “finiished” circle.21 These indicators suuggest that woork was puncttuated both sppatially and teemporally and represennts the collabborative effortt of different communitiess.22 While these sites w were probablyy all in use sim multaneously for a short peeriod, the most notablee aspect of thiis landscape c.3000-2500BC c C would havee been the massive buuilding activitty taking plaace, giving tthe appearancce of an intensively populated building b site rather than distinct and d ordered groupings off domestic setttlements and ritual monum ments.23

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Movement and contact such as this enabled the spread of Neolithic culture throughout North-West Europe. Journeying represents a process of transformation, whether an exploration of uncharted territory or an engagement with ritualised landscapes.24 Crossing boundaries, either on land or sea, may have formed a rite of passage for young members of elite groups and their retinue. The perilous nature of sea voyages in particular, combined with the exotic nature of the knowledge and objects they brought back, may have been used to gain recognition and status.25

Investigating the Modern Visitor Experience The current WHS partners are Historic Scotland, Scottish Natural Heritage, Orkney Islands Council and the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds. The inscribed sites are assigned tight individual boundaries inside an inner and outer buffer zone and are owned and managed by Historic Scotland. Barnhouse Village and the Ness of Brodgar are not part of the current WHS inscription (see Figures 14.2 and 14.3). As a result of the recognised importance of landscape to the outstanding universal value of the HONO, there has been a concerted effort among the stakeholders to work on an integrated approach to managing the sites within their landscape setting. Although Orkney is famous for its standing monuments, the understanding of the landscapes that surrounded them was known to contain significant gaps. Since inscription, a comprehensive programme of geophysical survey has been undertaken, followed by systematic trial trenching of anomalies. It was during this survey programme that anomalies on the Ness of Brodgar site were identified (see Figure 14.4). However, before trenching could be undertaken, the chance find of a large notched slab during ploughing on the site in 2003 led to the discovery of the first large Neolithic building. Excavation and survey on and around the site is ongoing.26 The discovery of the Ness of Brodgar complex has obviously led to significant changes and developments in the understanding of the other monuments and the manner in which they relate to each other and their setting. This has thrown up many new research questions and to date two Research Strategies have been published relating to the HONO.27

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Figure 14.2 The World Heritage Sites, Buffer B Zones aand Designated d Sensitive wnes, J. and E Edmunds, M. Landscapes Areas (copyrright Brend, A., Card, N., Dow revealed: Rem mote sensing around a the Hea art of Neolithicc Orkney World d Heritage Site. Oxford, Oxbow Books,, forthcoming. Reproduced R witth permission).

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WHS Inscriptioon Area at Skaara Brae (Crow wn copyright reproduced r Figure 14.3 W courtesy of H Historic Scotlandd).

Figure 14.4 E Excavations at thhe Ness of Brod dgar (copyrightt author).

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The currrent WHS Mannagement Plan (Historic Sccotland, 2013)) includes four long-term aims withh significant im mplications foor visitor expeerience of the HONO W WHS in the fuuture. The reallisation of theese aims includ des: the long term aspiration for an Arrchaeology Ceentre/World Heeritage Gateway Centre; improvedd online presencce and the poteential for digitall interpretation in the future; the HONO; improvedd access to museeum collectionss that relate to th building oon the work off the Historic Scotland Rangerrs both on site and in local schoools; strengthenning partnershiips between sttakeholders andd local commu unities and encouuraging further research on thee WHS.28

Current inteerpretation takkes the form of o panels on site (see Figu ure 14.5), interpretatioon centres at Maeshowe M and Skara Brae,, and tours led, free of charge, by H Historic Scotlland Rangers at the Stones of Stenness, the Ring of Brodgar aand at the Nesss of Brodgar during the exccavation seaso on. Figure 14.5 Innterpretation Paanel (copyright author).

There arre also severaal guidebooks available whhich elaboratee more of the current academic undderstanding of o the site andd provide maaps of the archaeologyy in the surrouunding area.

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Visitor Encounters with the HONO The location of the Orkney archipelago means that it is a destination that most tourists have to make a significant journey to visit, either by sea or by air. The location of the Northern Isles lends itself to being marketed as an experience of remoteness and otherness far removed from many tourists' daily lives. Visitor experience was investigated through observation at the Stones of Stenness, Ring of Brodgar, Ness of Brodgar and Barnhouse Village. Visitor behaviour was not observed at Maeshowe or Skara Brae due to the very restricted nature of movement around these sites (see Figures 14.6 and 14.7). Figure 14.6 The Route to Maeshowe (copyright author).

General behavioural observations spread over the course of a week in July 2012 were supplemented by direct tracking and interviews of ten visitors at the Stones of Stenness and twelve at the Ring of Brodgar. The snapshot of visitor tracking was undertaken to back up the more general observations, and to revisit and update McClanahan's data on visitor behaviour at the sites, since the layout and interpretation of these sites had

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changed som mewhat since her study.29 The T data colleected on site was then compared w with an analysis of the op pen access daata provided by b online TripAdvisorr reviews of the sites, fo ocussing on vvisits to the Ring of Brodgar (522) and Stoness of Stenness (25) undertakken during 20 013, with additional ddata from Skarra Brae (131) reviews from m the same tim me period, where relevaant. Houses at Skaraa Brae. Visitorss cannot enter, but look down into them Figure 14.7 H from roof leevel, giving quuite a differentt visitor experrience to the other o sites (copyright Sim mon Clarke, peermission given n).

O Observing Behaviour B at the Ston ne Circles The majjority of obseerved visitors at the Ring of Brodgar fell fe into a very predicctable patternn of behaviou ur: they enteered, read an ny panels briefly, circcled around within w the ston nes and then left, with no o obvious concentratioon on any speccific feature of o the site. Thhis group acco ounted for 49% of the sample at thee Ring of Bro odgar, while oonly 10% reveealed this behaviour att the Stones of Stenness. Th he majority off visitors eitheer walked in briefly, gglanced at the panels and th he stones and then walked out again (40%) or weent to the otheer extreme and d explored thee site more tho oroughly, including w walking down to Barnhouse Village (400%). Only 25% of the visitors at thhe Ring of Broodgar exhibiteed this exploriing behaviourr. Visitors to the Stonees of Stenness were much more likely tto behave in a playful

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manner, sw winging on thee stones, hug gging them annd pretending g to push them over, pperhaps encouuraged by the more m informaal managemen nt and less imposing naature of the sitte (see Figure 14.8). Figure 14.8 V Visitors “Playing” at the Stoness of Stenness (ccopyright autho or).

Visitor at the Ring R of Brodgarr. The only perrson observed disobeying d Figure 14.9 V the signage annd taking a shortcut through th he ditch (copyriight author).

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The conttinued erosionn visible at th he Ring of Brrodgar, in areeas which are signpostted as off limitts to visitors, suggests that a considerable number of visitors aare using thee site in a no on-conformist manner, ignoring the signs, climbbing through thhe ditches and d walking to tthe centre of the t circle, although onnly one visitorr enacting this behaviour waas observed during d the survey (see Figure 14.9). However, it seems s reasonaable to supposse visitors are more likkely to do this at quieter tim mes rather thann when the site is busy. No visitors w were observedd moving arou und the landsccape beyond th he sites. These obbservations coorrelated closeely with thosee of McClanaahan, who also trackedd and observedd visitor behav viour at these sites. None off the interview wees had moveed out into thhe landscape outside o of the sites; alll had come byy car or coach and parkedd at each site, visited it and returnedd to their vehhicle to visit th he next site. O Observation confirmed c that the majority of visitoors do not gen nerally leave tthe major mo onuments; during the w week of obserrvation, a smaall number of visitors were observed at the Comeet Stone but noone at the Barn nhouse Stone,, perhaps unsu urprisingly due to its ratther inaccessibble position (ssee Figure 14..10). Figure 14.10 The Barnhouse Stone. It is lo ocated within a field between n the A965 and B9055 (ccopyright authorr).

A small number of visitors v were generally g to bbe found congregating around the W Watch Stone at a peak times,, some photoggraphing the stone, s but many photographing a sw wan and cygnets on the Locch of Harray. A single

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visitor was observed at the accessible (but not clearly marked) Ring of Bookan.

The Recalled Visit Current archaeological discourse suggests that the stone circles were very much a place of gatherings, celebrations and communal effort.30 However, the visitor responses were significantly lacking in references to people or communities at the site in any form. One of the open-ended, interview questions enquired directly whether the respondent felt they understood what life was like at the site in the past. Although the response to this was generally in the affirmative, very few visitors seemed comfortable to elaborate on this. Those that did elaborate were typically vague and often their responses were accompanied by nervous laughter. …was the Ring of Brodgar a marketplace.... like Neolithic Tescos? [laughing] ...A place for people to gather and trade. They must have had a lot of time and manpower available to put up the stones.... but I suppose they didn't have much to do beyond a bit of hunting. [laughing] ...it must have been a rough living. We understand that life in the Neolithic would change with the time of year, everything was linked to the seasons.

Despite the massive significance of the sea to Orcadian communities in the past being recognised archaeologically and historically, only one interview respondent mentioned any potentially maritime aspect of the prehistoric communities: It's a good location – good hunting, good fishing; a good location in the fertile valley bottom. It was obviously an important site to them, but we will never know why.

Only 5% of TripAdvisor reviews mentioned life at the stone circles in the past. Although interviewees and TripAdvisor reviewers mentioned other Neolithic sites in the UK and Ireland, it was almost exclusively with reference to tourism or management and interpretation on site. No reference was made to the wide, cultural links across the Neolithic world, the maritime nature of prehistoric (and historic) Orkney or the architectural references to the landscape and seascape within the sites

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themselves. Although vissitors appear to t appreciate the spectacullar nature of the settinng, none of the interview wees moved oout into the landscape l beyond the sites, and only 4% of the reviews r mentiion moving arround the landscape or deliberatelyy looking at th he site(s) from m a specific point, p for example: If you gget a chance, approach on foot from thhe Ness of Brodgar excavatioons, on the moown footpath allong the shorelline and in fro om the west...thaat way you'll haave chance to contemplate c thiis monument without w too manyy folks around you. y

Interestinglyy, while analyysis of the Tripadvisor T reeviews for Sk kara Brae revealed a cconsiderable increase in refferences to liffe in the past (23%, as opposed to 5% at the stoone circles), as would be exxpected at such a well preserved doomestic site, only o 6% of theese were speciific, for examp ple: You will find that you might well haave lived in a ssolid stone stru ucture, covered bby hide, clay annd turf, with an open fire to coook your fresh caught c fish, a larrder to store forr the winter and d a bed built of stone but soften ned by dried grassses and heatheer. Figure 14.11 Words used in Tripadvisor Reeview Titles (coopyright author)).

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The analysis of the interviews and reviews regarding the stone circles (see Figure 14.11, specifically about the Ring of Brodgar) reveals an experience that is generally powerful and emotional; the stones are seen as sacred, a moving and timeless experience. However, the complex, sophisticated and mobile society which created and experienced them, is notable by its absence in the visitor responses.

Conclusion: Revisiting Authenticity The architecture and material culture of Orkney during the Late Neolithic and Early Bronze Age point to extensive contact with the wider world, a sharing of ideas and artefacts only made possible by an active maritime culture; in fact, Orkney exhibits evidence of greater outside contact than Caithness during this period.31 When these sites were constructed, they were part of a complex task-scape,32 which included areas where movement was heavily controlled and spaces restricted. Architectural codes linked the past with the present, the ritual with the domestic, and extended across house, tomb and stone circle. The landscape and seascape were repeatedly referenced in the form of the monuments. This was not a static landscape; it was a place of constant flux and transformation, simultaneously a building site and a focus for ritual and pilgrimage.33 The modern experience is also an encounter with distinct sites within a complex landscape of controlled movement. Evidence from tracking and observing visitor experience, including reviews and interviews, suggests that awe is still evoked by the sheer scale and setting of the sites. However, the more specific architectural codes are, unsurprisingly, more difficult to comprehend. While some visitors are fascinated by their technological achievements, the people and communities who built and inhabited these sites generally prove elusive to the imagination. For the majority of visitors, the stone circles appear to be awesome and empty. The architectural codes of the past have been replaced by the codes of a modern heritage site: behaviour is influenced by the presence, or absence, of panels and visible paths and the behaviour of other visitors. The erosion patterns however point to a strong compulsion among some visitors to explore the “forbidden” centre of the Ring of Brodgar, and a strong ceremonial association with the Ring also sees it regularly used as a venue for weddings and the scattering of cremations. The urge to explore and relate to the sites generally remains an inward-looking activity. Visitors rarely leave the immediate environs of the sites to explore their landscapes. The “otherness” of the journeying experienced by the modern

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visitor to reach the Northern Isles and the marketing of the islands as remote and wild appear to combine with the enigmatic nature of prehistory to create an aura of mystery and isolation. Ironically, in this era of globalisation and easy, long-distance travel, the sea may have become more remote, more of a boundary than it was to those prehistoric Orcadians, who probably interacted with it every day, something to be valued and feared, utilised and respected.34 Returning to the concept of authenticity in visitor experience as outlined by ICOMOS (2011), the research introduced here indicates that the site is well presented in a manner that is based on “sound research”, and the visitors are leaving the WHS having had an enjoyable experience and with a distinct impression of the “spirit and feeling” of the site. They recognise the outstanding universal value of the sites as represented by both the tangible technological and architectural aspects of the design and the intangible heritage of the sacred and ceremonial. However, the analysis of the data, as discussed earlier, raises an issue of authenticity in visitor experience, not in the information presented but in the visitor response. Responses suggested that visitors were unsure of details of the time period, apart from its sheer antiquity, relying on preconceptions, “alike memories”,35 and seeking out evidence in the site to match their subconscious image of place. This image, as related by visitors, situates the Stenness-Brodgar area as a windswept and apparently empty landscape, punctuated by imposing sacred stones towering out of the heather. This is a strong and compelling draw, the lure of the “other”36 overwhelming the limited information on the site panels. The interchange of values these monuments represent, the role the sites played in the development of monument complexes across North-West Europe, and the lives of the sophisticated and mobile communities which constructed these sites appeared to be almost completely missing from the recounted visitor experience. Visitors who had participated in the guided tour were notably better informed and more engaged with the academic narrative. “Spirit of place” is not currently required to be overtly defined in World Heritage nominations or management plans. The image of place being recounted by visitors at the HONO is very similar to that being presented in the tourist marketing both for the sites and the Orkney Islands as a whole. If the “spirit of place” is to be balanced with an “authentic” visitor experience based on “sound research”, then a more defined approach is needed. The “spirit of place” is a strong tourist draw and also plays an important part in local identity.37 The presentation and management of the sites reflect an unusually strong relationship between academic archaeology and heritage interpretation and is a strong example

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of good practice. The panels on site at the HONO present current academic concepts, the guided tours include the dissemination of active research and, during the summer excavation season, visitors can watch archaeologists digging at the Ness of Brodgar. However, the visitor responses, especially those who did not participate in the guided tours, are very similar to those analysed from other UK WHS case studies. Currently, the visitor preconceptions, combined with tourism marketing of the Northern Isles, risk creating an “aura of authenticity”38 or “attractive authenticity”39 around the stone circles, as opposed to maintaining a balance between preserving and promoting the “spirit of place” without overpowering the academic narrative of the sites in the past. The strong base of academic credibility could be built upon at the HONO to counter some of the issues. Movement out into the landscape could be further encouraged, where possible, by making clear the known alignments, routes and relationships between monuments and marking very clearly areas of open access or pathways. More information could be provided on the mobility of the local population (including via the sea and lochs) and the spread of ideas. Visitor confidence could be enhanced with increased information available on site for those who are not able to take the guided tours. This should include clear chronological information at the stone circles - the time line at Skara Brae was visibly effective in visitor responses - and some basic information on how people lived, which also provides the opportunity to direct visitors out to other sites across Orkney. If access into the centre of the Ring of Brodgar needs to remain prohibited, the reasoning needs to be explained more clearly. Greater information on the archaeology of the stone circles may reduce the urge to access the centre: since the focus in the past appears to have been on the stones, the centre of the circle seems to have been empty. Priority needs to be placed on defining the “spirit of place” that, although dynamic and intangible, needs to be broadly defined in order to be promoted and preserved. Differences between the experience of the modern site and the way the monuments and their environs were experienced in the past provide key points for visitors to relate to and create a more truly “authentic” experience.

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Notes 1. UNESCO Operational Guidelines for the Implementation of the World Heritage Convention. World Heritage Centre, Paris. (2013), 14. 2. Jukka Jokilehto, “Considerations on authenticity and integrity in world heritage context,” City & Time, 2 (2006), 8. 3. ICOMOS The Paris Declaration on Heritage as a Driver of Development (2011), 4. 4. Historic Scotland, Heart of Neolithic Orkney World Heritage Site Management Plan 2014-19: consultation draft (Historic Scotland, Edinburgh, 2013), 20. 5. Gordon Noble, “Harnessing the waves: Monuments and ceremonial complexes in Orkney and beyond,” Journal of Maritime Archaeology, Volume 1 (2006), 109. 6. Michelle Farrell, “The environmental context of later prehistoric human activity in Orkney, Scotland.” PhD diss., University of Hull (2009), 379-380. 7. Tim Philips, “Seascapes and landscapes in Orkney and northern Scotland,” World Archaeology Volume 35(3) (2003), 372. 8. See Jane Downes, et al., “Investigating the great Ring of Brodgar, Orkney,” in Building the Great Stone Circles of the North (Windgather Press, 2013). 9. Richard Bradley, An Archaeology of Natural Places (Psychology Press, 2000), 133. 10. See Colin Richards, “Monuments as landscape: Creating the centre of the world in late Neolithic Orkney,” World Archaeology, Volume 28, Issue 2, (1996), 193. 11. Caroline Wickham-Jones, and Sue Dawson, Submerged Landscape of Orkney: project interim report June 2008 (Historic Scotland, 2008), 2. 12. Michael Parker Pearson, “Ancestors, bones and stones in in Neolithic and Early Bronze Age Britain and Ireland,” in Neolithic Orkney in its European Context, ed. Anna Ritchie (Cambridge: McDonald Institute, 2000), 212-13. 13. Noble, “Harnessing the waves,” 113. 14. Richards, “Monuments as landscape.” 15. See Adrian Challands, et al., “Beyond the Village: Barnhouse Odin and the Stones of Stenness,” in Dwelling among the Monuments: the Neolithic village of Barnhouse, Maeshowe passage grave and surrounding monuments at Stenness, Orkney, ed. Colin Richards (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 2005); Jane Downes, et al., “Investigating the great Ring of Brodgar, Orkney”. 16. Richards, “Monuments as landscape.” 17. Colin Richards, Dwelling among the Monuments: the Neolithic village of Barnhouse, Maeshowe passage grave and surrounding monuments at Stenness, Orkney. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005). 18. Colin Richards, ed. Building the Great Stone Circles of the North. (Windgather Press, 2013), 88. 19 Richards, Building the Great Stone Circles, 89. 20. Gordon Noble, “Monumental Journeys: ceremonial complexes and routeways across Neolithic Scotland,” in Prehistoric Journeys, eds. Vicki Cummings, and Robert Johnson, (Oxbow Books, 2007), 71. 21. Challands, et al., “Beyond the Village,” 222-4

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22. Downes, et al., “Investigating the great Ring of Brodgar, Orkney,” 106. 23. Richards, Building the Great Stone Circles, 66-67. 24. Vicki Cummings, and Robert Johnston, “Leaving Place: an introduction to prehistoric journeys,” in Prehistoric Journeys, (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2007), 4. 25. Robert Van de Noort, “An ancient seascape: the social context of seafaring in the early Bronze Age,” in Seascapes, World Archaeology Volume 35(3) (2003), 413. 26. Nick Card, et al., “Bringing a landscape to life? – researching and managing the ‘The Heart of Neolithic Orkney’ World Heritage Site,” World Archaeology 39(3) (2007), 424-426. 27. Jane Downes, et al., The Heart of Neolithic Orkney World Heritage Site Research Agenda. (Edinburgh: Historic Scotland, 2005); Jane Downes and Julie Gibson, Heart of Neolithic Orkney World Heritage Site: Research Strategy 20132018 (Edinburgh: Historic Scotland, 2013). 28. Historic Scotland, Heart of Neolithic Orkney, 49. 29. Angela McClanahan, “The Heart of Neolithic Orkney in its Contemporary Contexts: a case study in heritage management and community values.” PhD diss., University of Manchester (2004). 30. See Downes, et al., “Investigating the great Ring of Brodgar, Orkney.” 31. Noble, “Harnessing the waves,” 114-5. 32. Tim Ingold, “Culture on the Ground: the world perceived through the feet,” Journal of Material Culture 9 (3), (2004), 315-340. 33. See Richards, Building the Great Stone Circles. 34. Gabriel Cooney, “Seeing Land from the Sea,” World Archaeology Volume 35(3) (2003), 326. 35. Ehab Kamel, “Guiding Principles for the Management of Interpretation in Cultural World Heritage Sites,” Unpublished PhD diss., University of Nottingham (2011), 220. 36. See Johannes Fabian, “The Other Revisited,” Anthropological Theory 6 (2006). 37. See McClanahan, “The Heart of Neolithic Orkney.” 38. Sian Jones, “Experiencing Authenticity at Heritage Sites: Some Implications for Heritage Management and Conservation,” in Conservation and Management of Archaeological Sites 1, (2), (2009), 133-47. 39. Torgrim S. Guttormsen, and Knut Fageraas, “The social production of ‘attractive authenticity’ at the World Heritage Site of Røros, Norway,” International Journal of Heritage Studies, 17:5, (2011), 442-462.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN A PRELIMINARY EXPLORATION OF THE NORSE INFLUENCE ON GAELIC MARITIME TERMINOLOGY GAVIN PARSONS

To understand the development of the maritime lexicon in the west of Scotland we need to start by looking at what languages have been spoken there. Most historians are agreed that some form of P-Celtic was spoken by tribes loosely described as Picts, until Q-Celtic speaking Gaels arrived from Ireland, probably in the fifth century, but possibly earlier.1 Norsespeaking people began to settle in the Northern Isles around the end of the eighth century, and in the Hebrides or Western Isles during the ninth century. The extent of interaction between them is the background to this study. In order to consider how Gaelic boat terminology was affected by loanwords from the Old Norse language, we need to think about what boats were like before the Norse settlers arrived. We know quite a lot about how ships were built around the North Sea in the early Middle Ages through the excavation of wrecks. Ole Crumlin Pedersen has demonstrated the close connection between the tradition of clinker-building developed at various locations in this area.2 In contrast, we know almost nothing about how ships were constructed in this period on the west coast of Scotland. We know that the birlinn or “West Highland Galley” was used in the later Middle Ages, and that this vessel was clearly part of the clinker tradition, but the complete absence of material evidence means it is unknown whether the type was introduced by Norse settlers or was used earlier. One of the earliest pieces of evidence of a sea-going vessel is the Broighter ship, a 20cm long model, made of beaten gold, which was found in the north of Ireland at the end of the nineteenth century and has been dated to the first century BC. The model has a mast with a yard, nine pairs of oars and a steering oar. The absence of framework in the model means

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there is no indication of the construction of the original, but it has been suggested that it could represent a wooden boat.3 There are a few literary references from the early medieval period which refer to sailing, for example, in Adomnán’s Vita Columbae from c. 700 AD, which several times refers to boats and their use. Certainly monks used skin-covered boats, probably similar to the curachs used in the west of Ireland up until the present day, but Adomnán makes one intriguing reference: “…pine trees and oaks had been felled and dragged overland. Some were to be used in the making of a longship”.4 Pine and oak are the types of wood preferred for building wooden boats from the Viking Age onward, in Norway and other places around the North Sea.5 Neither pine nor oak would be suitable for the lath framework of a skin boat, which needs to be made of a flexible wood such as ash, hazel or willow. Although we have no precise information on what type of boat this “longship” was, this indicates that there was a knowledge of wooden boat building before the arrival of the Norse people. The arrival of Norse raiders is well known, as it was documented in various monastic records such as the Annals of Ulster from the end of the eighth century AD. We know from place-name evidence that the Hebrides and western and northern parts of the mainland were settled by Norse speakers, with the greatest concentration in Lewis, where 80% of village names are derived from Old Norse.6 The islands in the west were regarded by the King of Norway as skatlands or “tributary lands” and did not officially become part of Scotland until the Treaty of Perth in 1266. During this period, it seems that the Hebrides were at times ruled as part of the Kingdom of Man and at times as part of the Earldom of Orkney.7 The question of when and how much Gaelic was spoken in the Hebrides is difficult to answer due to the scarcity of evidence from this period. References to people known as Gall Ghàidheil go back to the ninth century and appear to refer to a mixed race of Scandinavian Gaels.8 Somerled MacGilleBrìde, according to Gaelic tradition, led a force of Gaels which defeated the ruling Norsemen in Argyll. He then went on to conquer his brother-in-law Godfrey of Man in two sea battles in 1156 and 1158, and thus gained control of all the islands in the west. It was Somerled’s descendants who established the Lordship of the Isles, a semiindependent Gaelic-speaking kingdom in the west, which flourished from the mid-fourteenth century to the end of the fifteenth century.9 Though the governance was through Gaelic,10 we have no way of knowing whether everyone by this time was speaking Gaelic or if there were still pockets of Old Norse speakers.

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Oral tradition may be able to give us some hints about relations between the Gaelic and Old Norse speakers. Most oral tradition tells of Vikings as raiders who were repelled by the natives,11 but occasionally snippets of information can be found, for example, from Lachie MacLean of Knock in Mull, a tradition-bearer with stories going back to Viking times. During an interview conducted by the author, he talked about how it was told that the Vikings were living in the best places that they had earlier raided – the likes of Rossal and Ardvergnish at the head of Loch Sgrìdain (in Mull). Monks from Iona had set up cells in these two places after the Vikings started raiding in Iona itself, but the Vikings later raided Rossal and Ardvergnish as well.12 These places certainly do have names derived from Old Norse and the displacement of Gaels by Norse settlers evidently was important enough to be remembered for 1200 years. Another source of information on the relationship between Gael and Norse is Gaelic poetry, and praise for Norsemen can be found in various guises. The early thirteenth century MacSween poem is an incitement to Clan MacSween to retake Castle Sween in Argyll after it was captured by Stewarts. The poet imagines the splendid fleet that Eòin Mac Suibhne (John MacSween) will have, praising his ships which will be crewed by “Norsemen and noble Stewards”. Donald Meek, who interpreted this poem from its obscure, medieval Scots-based spelling, has suggested that the Norwegian King Hákon Hákonsson’s fleet, which appeared in the islands in 1263, made a great impression on the population in the west, and heightened the heroic image of the Norse. Meek further suggests that the poet was working within a mixed Gall-Ghàidheil cultural environment “in which a pattern for the description of a fleet based on Viking prototypes was part of bilingual currency”.13 Clan MacLeod claimed Norse ancestry, and so MacLeod poets would praise their lineage, as in this seventeenth-century example from Màiri Nighean Alasdair Ruaidh (Mary MacLeod), Luinneag MhicLeòid: t'fholachd is t'uaisle Cha bu shuarach ri leanmhainn; D’fhuil dìrich righ Lochlainn B'e sud toiseach do sheanchais. Thy lineage and nobility were no trifle to trace; from the blood of Norway's kings thine ancestry unbroken14

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It is clear that the Norse and the Gaelic cultures, and particularly maritime traditions, are intertwined, so it is to be expected that terms would have been borrowed between the languages. However, despite Norse and Gaels living side by side for perhaps centuries, most scholars are agreed that the Old Norse language did not have a great impact on the Gaelic language.15 This was documented in a burgeoning of scholarly studies into linguistics in the late nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth century, which included several studies into connections between Old Norse and Irish/Scottish Gaelic. Perhaps the most comprehensive and critical of these studies was that of Carl Marstrander, which laid down a foundation for later scholars to build on.16 Many of these have suggested that loans into Gaelic from Old Norse were almost entirely in technical fields, primarily maritime.17 Most of these studies have concentrated on the linguistic evidence without investigating the social and cultural context. However, a recent study by Rod McDonald set out to investigate social conditions as the context of such loans.18 The study made some interesting suggestions about the interaction between Norse and Gael, particularly with regard to trade in seabirds and deep-sea fish, but also suggested contact in other fields. Rod McDonald referred particularly to recent work in contact linguistics, such as theories developed by Sarah Thomason.19 She suggests that borrowing of terms is most likely to happen when there is bilingualism, where speakers of one language shift to another language entirely, they may take words with them, but these tend not to last in the new language. She does however add that the retention of words from the original language depends partly on the number of speakers shifting their language compared with the number of speakers of that target language.20 We can surmise from this that it is most likely that bilingual Gaels were responsible for adopting Norse terms into Gaelic, though it is possible that a large number of speakers shifting from Old Norse to Gaelic over a relatively short period, for instance in Lewis, could have carried terms over. It has been stated that languages borrow words from other languages mainly for either “need” or “prestige”.21 Borrowing for “need” occurs when a new item or concept is introduced to speakers of a particular language from another language and the name is introduced with it. Borrowing for “prestige” occurs where a word already exists in a language but a word of the same meaning from another language has greater prestige, usually because that language has greater prestige. It seems from the place-name evidence that Norse speakers were dominant in at least the Outer Hebrides in the Viking period.22 However,

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the picture is less clear in the Inner Hebrides. For example, Andrew Jennings and Arne Kruse have suggested Argyll as the origin of the mixed race Gall-Ghàidheil,23 though this is refuted by Tom Clancy24 and also by Clare Downham25, who suggest a Clyde origin. The Gall-Ghàidheil, whatever their place of origin, as their name “foreigner Gaels” implies, were a mixed Norse-Gaelic community, where Norse terms could have been borrowed into Gaelic. There are a few early references to their language as, for example, gic-goc Gallgaidhel in Airec Menman Uraird maic Coise.26 The nature of this gic-goc has been speculated on by various writers as “guttural, unintelligible chatter”, but whether this was Gaelic spoken with a Norse accent or a mix of both languages is not known.27 A study of Norse loans in twelfth-century Irish sources by Catherine Swift describes several categories of military officials whose titles are derived from Old Norse.28 This implies that the language had prestige in that society. One of these terms armunn is shown by Donald Meek also to have had prestige in Scotland by its use in the MacSween poem mentioned previously. This suggests that the prestige shown was common to both Scottish and Irish Gaels. To look more closely at the Gaelic maritime terminology which has been borrowed from Old Norse, I listed all the maritime terms in Gaelic from Diarmaid Ó Muirithe’s Dictionary of Scandinavian words in the languages of Britain and Ireland 29 and grouped them into the following categories: Table 15.1 Seabirds; Table 15.2 Fish and Fishing; Table 15.3 Boat Parts; Table 15.4 Boat Handling; Table 15.5 Sea States. I also listed Gaelic Boat Terms not borrowed from Old Norse in Table 15.6. Table 15.1 Seabirds Gaelic bugaire fulmair làmhaidh sgarbh sgàireag sgoilm steàrnag sùlaire

Old Norse bugrfúlmár lang vé skarfr skári skálm (=short sword) Þerna súla

English puffin fulmar guillemot cormorant young gull razorbill tern gannet

As Rod McDonald has pointed out, these birds (see Table 15.1) have all been used by Norse people as a food source and may have been similarly exploited by Gaels.30 However, the number of Old Norse loans

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suggest that Gaels may have traded these seabirds and their economic value is the reason for the loan-word adoption. Dale Serjeantson has shown in examinations of middens from coastal settlement sites in Orkney and Uist, dating from Neolithic to late medieval periods, that there is a considerable increase in the percentage of seabird bones from the beginning of the Viking period onwards.31 Records from more recent times show the economic value of seabirds. Alexander Carmichael, writing in 1883, reported that crofters of Mingulay had previously paid their rents in birds to MacNeil of Barra.32 Research by John Baldwin has shown the importance of “fowling” to coastal communities around the world, and he draws attention to the account books of the Earls of Derby, which list seventeenth-century rents for the Calf of Man being part-paid in puffins.33 The few fish with names borrowed from Old Norse (see Table 15.2) may also be significant. It could be that the Norse terms may have been introduced as noa terms (replacements for taboo words) which gradually replaced the older names.34 It could indicate that Gaels and Norse people were fishing together and/or learning new skills, or again that they may have simply been trading. In support of trading, Rod McDonald suggests a market economy in fish similar to that in seabirds.35 This seems more likely, considering that the deep-water fish, cod and ling, were particularly important to the Norse settlers. A paper by Sophia Perdikaris and Thomas H. McGovern on Viking Age economics and cod-fishing speaks of an emerging consensus that “deep-sea marine fishing intensified with the arrival of the Scandinavians, and that the Celtic peoples of the Northern and Western Isles were probably not engaged in large scale, deep-sea fishery during the later Iron Age”.36 Research by James Barrett strengthens this consensus.37 Table 15.2 Fish and Fishing Gaelic saoidhean, trosg, langa, dorgh sgùlan fleodrainn

Old Norse seiðr, Þorskr langa, dorg skjóla fljota

English saithe cod ling handline for fishing basket for lines buoy/float

The fish and seabird loans could be explained by trading or other commerce between Norse and Gaelic peoples, but other sets of boat-linked

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terms suggest closer contact: for instance, those connected with boatbuilding: Table 15.3 Boat Parts Gaelic locair bòrd sgar sudh reang stoc tobhta amall sgòrradh lunn

Old Norse lokarr borð/húfr skör gen skarar suð rӑng stokkr Þopta hamla, homluband skorða (= to prop up) hlunnr

English plane board, strake skarf lap (overlap) frame, rib gunwale thwart oar grommet prop roller

Table 15.4 Boat Handling Gaelic rac sgòd abhsadh beatadh stiùir steòrn taomadh acair sgiobair sgioba

Old Norse rakki skaut halsa beite stýra stjórna tœma akkeri skipari (from skip)

English traveller sheet slackening sail beating rudder to steer/guide bailing anchor skipper crew

The lists in Tables 15.3 and 15.4 show that a number of terms to do with boat parts and boat handling are Old Norse loanwords. The term for rudder can reasonably be included in the boat handling list: the rudder, although basic and undoubtedly used since boats had sails, is such an integral part of sailing that, if Gaels were sailing along with Norsemen, it is easy to imagine that the term would be among those needing to be mutually understood. If, as contact linguistic theory suggests, it is most likely that these loans are the result of bilingual Gaels interacting with Norse speakers, we need to consider how this would have happened. Were Gaels crewing on Norse vessels? Were they working in Norse boatyards?

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The list of sea states (see Table 15.5) could strengthen the evidence for Gaels crewing on Norse ships. These are terms which essentially would only be used at sea, and which therefore suggest that Gaels and Norsemen were sailing together. Table 15.5 Sea States Gaelic bàirlinn piorradh ròiseal rotach samh sgùm

Old Norse bára byrr (= fair wind) röst (=tidal current) róta haf skúm

English large wave sudden squall surge of wave storm at sea breaking wave crest foam, scum

However, there are a number of significant terms which, it appears, are not derived from Old Norse (see Table 15.6): Table 15.6 Gaelic Boat Terms Not Borrowed from Old Norse Gaelic crann slat druim slige ràmh seòl tarrang lann barradh

Old Irish crann slat druimm slice ráme seól tairnge lann barr

Old Norse mastr/sigla rá kjӑlr húfr ár segl saumr ró ?

English mast yard keel hull oar sail nail rove clenching, clinking

It is perhaps not surprising that such basic terms as mast, yard, oar and sail have not been borrowed from Old Norse. We know from Adomnán and others that Gaels sailed and rowed boats before the Norsemen arrived. The Gaelic word ràmh “oar” is possibly cognate with the Latin remus, and it is likely that it has been in the language for a very long time. There has been much written about the possible derivation of seòl “sail” and whether it could be derived from the Old Norse segl. Katrin Thier has postulated that both terms might originate from a Common Celtic root, siglo.38 It is also interesting to note that the Old Norse word for “keel” was not adopted into Gaelic. This might indicate that keels were known and named

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before the Norse people arrived and, since skin boats are built without a keel, suggests that wooden boats were, at the very least, present. The other observation which might be significant is that the three main terms concerned with “clenching” or “clinking” in Gaelic, have no connection with Old Norse. Again this might indicate that the Gaels were already familiar with the operation of clenching, where nails passed through overlapping planks in a boat hull are riveted over a disc of metal. This is an essential part of clinker-built ships such as the Norse type. If Gaels were at all involved in boatbuilding with Norsemen, they would have been taking part in the clenching process. This suggests that either Gaels were not involved in Norse boatbuilding or, if they were, for some reason they either kept using Gaelic terms that they already knew or else, at some later period, substituted Gaelic terms for the Norse ones. So, how much can we deduce about interaction between Gaelic and Norse peoples from these sets of loanwords? And did Gaels, who were to a lesser or greater extent bilingual, adopt these Norse terms, or did a large number of Norse people become Gaelic speakers over a short period and take these terms with them? In addition, can this study of loanwords give us a deeper understanding of the nature of the relationship between Gaelic and Norse peoples? Taking the seabird loans first, it is clear that these birds were used by the Norse as a food source, and that they had not been used to any significant extent in Northern and Western Scotland before the Viking period. Trading or other economic use, for example, payment of rents to a Norse overlord, seems the most likely reason for the loans, however at least some Gaels clearly acquired the practice of fowling. Similar conclusions can be drawn for the fish loanwords for similar reasons, but there could be an indication here of working together, as the Gaels may have had to learn new skills to fish deep water efficiently or how to conserve fish through drying. The boat part loanwords indicate stronger evidence of Gaels and Norse working together, in either building or sailing the boats, or both. These words include technically detailed terms to do with clinker-planking and would therefore point to the coming together of Norse and Gaels in the boatbuilding process. Turning to the loanwords concerning sea states, these seem to be the strongest evidence for partnership working, as it would be absolutely essential for a boat crew to understand each other, and indeed it is unlikely that such words would be acquired in any situation other than working together at sea.

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However, it is significant that the list of boat terminology which is not derived from Norse is the core terminology for basic boat parts which would have been used by Gaels for generations. This also raises the interesting question as to whether the non-Norse terminology for the clenching process and for the keel might indicate that the clinker method of construction could pre-date the arrival of the Norsemen. The examination of these loanwords gives us a tantalising insight into the relationship between Gaelic and Norse peoples. Is it possible that the Norse arrived in Gaeldom and encountered Gaels who already possessed highly developed maritime skills, but that the Norse enhanced these skills and techniques? Is it possible that the evidence of Norse loanwords still present in the Gaelic language reflects that shared culture and the extent to which Gaelic and Norse cultures not only co-existed but intermingled as a result of their common aims and aspirations? It is difficult, without detailed examination, to date these loans, but the fact that loans occurred and remained in the Gaelic language points to a co-operation between these two peoples.

Notes 1. Ewan Campbell, “Were the Scots Irish?” Antiquity, Volume 75, No. 288 (2001), 285-292. 2. Ole Crumlin-Pedersen, Archaeology and the Sea in Scandinavia and Britain a personal account (Roskilde: Viking Ship Museum/Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, 2010). 3. A. W. Farrell, S. Penny, and E. M. Jope, “The Broighter Boat: A Reassessment,” Irish Archaeological Research Forum, Volume 2, No. 2 (1975), 15-28. 4. Richard Sharpe, Adomnan of Iona - Life of St Columba (Middlesex, England: Penguin.1995), 201. 5. Crumlin-Pedersen, Archaeology and the Sea. 6. Magne Oftedal, “The Village Names of Lewis in the Outer Hebrides,” Norsk Tidskrift for Sprogvidenskap XVII (1954), 363-409. 7. Alex Woolf, From Pictland to Alba 789-1070 (Edinburgh: EUP, 2007), 298309. 8. Andrew Jennings, and Arne Kruse, “From Dal Riata to the Gall-Ghaidheil,” Viking and Medieval Scandinavia 5 (2009), 123–49. 9. Dòmhnall U. Stiùbhart, Rìoghachd nan Eilean (Clò Hallaig. Dùn Blathain, 2005). 10. John Bannerman, “The Lordship of the Isles,” in Scottish Society in the Fifteenth Century, ed. J. M. Brown (1977). 11. Donald A. MacDonald, “The Vikings in Gaelic Oral Tradition,” in The Northern and Western Isles in the Viking World, eds. Alexander Fenton, and Hermann Palsson. (Edinburgh: John Donald, 1984), 277.

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12. Lachie MacLean, Interview by the author 8th August, 1990, Knock, Isle of Mull, 1990. 13. Donald E. Meek, “Norsemen and Noble Stewards: The MacSween poem in the Book of the Dean of Lismore,” Cambrian Medieval Studies 34, (1997), 15. 14. J. Carmichael Watson, Gaelic Songs of Mary MacLeod (Edinburgh: Scottish Gaelic Texts Society, 1965), 39. 15. e.g. Magne Oftedal, “Norse Influence on Gaelic,” in The Companion Guide to Scottish Gaelic (Glasgow: Gairm, 1994). 16. See Carl J.S. Marstrander, “Bidrag til det norske Sprogs Historie i Irland,” Videnskapsselskapets Skrifter II. Historisk-Filosofisk Klasse, No. 5 (Kristiania: Jacob Dybwad, 1915). 17. Magne Oftedal, “On the frequency of Norse Loanwords in Scottish Gaelic,” Scottish Gaelic Studies 9 (1961-2), 116-127. 18. Roderick McDonald, Scandinavians in the Celtic West: Loanword Evidence and Social Impact. PhD diss., Dept of English, University of Sydney (2008). 19. Summarised in Sarah G. Thomason, Language Contact: An Introduction (Edinburgh: EUP, 2001). 20. Ibid., 136. 21. Lyle Campbell, Historical linguistics: An Introduction (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2013). 22. Thomas O. Clancy, “The Gall-Ghàidheil and Galloway,” The Journal of Scottish Name Studies, 2, (2008),19-50. 23. Andrew Jennings, and Arne Kruse, “From Dal Riata to the Gall-Ghaidheil.” 24. Clancy, The Gall-Ghàidheil and Galloway. 25. Clare Downham, “The break up of Dál Riata and the rise of Gallgoídil,” in The Vikings in Ireland and beyond: before and after the Battle of Clontarf, eds. Howard B. Clarke, and Ruth Johnson (Dublin: Four Courts, 2015), 189-205. 26. Mary E. Byrne, “Airec Menman Uraird maic Coise” in Anecdota from Irish Manuscripts. Volume II. (Halle, 1908). 27. Carl J.S. Marstrander, “Bidrag til det norske Sprogs Historie I Irland,” 383. 28. Catherine Swift, “Celtic berserkers and feeble steersmen: HibernoScandinavian military culture in Middle Irish Literature,” in The Vikings in Ireland and beyond: before and after the Battle of Clontarf, eds. Howard B. Clarke, and Ruth Johnson (Dublin: Four Courts, 2015), 451-469. 29. Diarmaid Ó Muirithe, From the Viking Word-Hoard - A Dictionary of Scandinavian words in the Languages of Britain and Ireland (Dublin: Four Courts Press, 2010). 30. McDonald, Scandinavians in the Celtic West, 236. 31. Dale Serjeantson, “The Diverse Origins of Bird Bones from Scottish Coastal Sites,” International Journal of Osteoarchaeology, 24 (2014). 32. John L. Campbell, The Book of Barra (London: Routledge, 1936). 33. John R. Baldwin, “Seabirds, Subsistence and Coastal Communities: an overview of cultural traditions in the British Isles,” in Traditions of Seabird Fowling in the North Atlantic Region, ed. J. Randall, (Isle of Lewis: Islands Book Trust, 2005), 12-36.

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34. Colm O Baoill, “Gaelic Ichthyonymy: studying the terms used for fish in Irish, Scottish Gaelic and Manx,” Zeitschrift für Celtische Philologie 46 (1994), 164199. 35. McDonald, Scandinavians in the Celtic West, 199. 36. Sophia Perdikaris, and Thomas M. McGovern, “Viking Age economics and the origins of commercial cod fisheries in the North Atlantic,” in The North Atlantic Fisheries in the Middle Ages and Early Modern Period: Interdisciplinary Approaches in History, Archaeology, and Biology, eds. L. Sickling, and Darlene Abreu-Ferreira (Netherlands: Brill Publishers, 2008), 62. 37. James H. Barrett, et al., “Archaeo-ichthyological evidence for long-term socioeconomic trends in northern Scotland: 3500 BC to 1500 AD,” Journal of Archaeological Science 26, (1999), 353-388. 38. Katrin Their, “Language and Technology: Some examples from seafaring (Germanic and Celtic),” Transactions of the Philological Society, Volume 109 (2011), 186-199.

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CONTRIBUTORS

ANDREW JENNINGS, PhD, joint conference organiser and editor, is a Researcher and Lecturer with the Centre for Nordic Studies, the University of the Highlands and Islands, based at Shetland College. His research interests include Viking and Celtic Studies, and he is UHI Programme Leader for Island Studies. In particular, he researches the Norse placenames of Scotland, and the history, culture and folklore of Shetland, Orkney, and the other Norse areas of the North Atlantic. SILKE REEPLOEG, PhD, joint conference organiser and editor, is a Researcher and Lecturer with the University of the Highlands and Islands, based in Shetland. Her research interests are in the fields of Nordic and Northern cultural history and literature. She is currently completing a postdoctoral research project on “Women in the Arctic, 1818-2018” with Karlstad University in Sweden. TERRY GUNNELL is Professor of Folkloristics at the University of Iceland. Author of The Origins of Drama and Scandinavia (1995), and editor of Masks and Mumming in the Nordic Area (2007); Legends and Landscape (2008); and (with Annette Lassen), The Nordic Apocalypse Approaches to ‘VІluspá’ and Nordic Days of Judgement (2013), he has written widely on Nordic folk legends, Old Nordic religions and mythology, folk drama and performance. He is currently involved in various projects relating to folk legends and the creation of national culture in the nineteenth century. ÁSDÍS EGILSDÓTTIR is a Professor of Medieval Icelandic Literature at the University of Iceland. Her research interests include hagiography, reading and memory studies, and gender studies, especially masculinity. She is currently working on a book about the lives of Icelandic Saints. TORFI H. TULINIUS is a Professor of Medieval Icelandic Studies at the University of Iceland. He has written two books on the sagas: The Matter of the North. The Rise of Literary Fiction in Thirteenth-Century Iceland (2002) and The Enigma of Egill. The Saga, the Viking Poet and Snorri Sturluson (2014). He has also published his own French translation of

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Sverris saga (2010). His next projects are a book on the Icelandic Family Sagas and a French translation of Egils saga. ANNA KATHARINA HEINIGER obtained her Masters degrees in Scandinavian Studies and English at Basel University (Switzerland). She is currently completing a PhD in medieval Icelandic literature at the University of Iceland. In her research, she focuses on the anthropological concept of liminality and the questions whether and how it can be applied to the Íslendingasögur, the medieval Icelandic family sagas. MARTINA CEOLIN is a PhD candidate in the Faculty of Icelandic and Comparative Cultural Studies at the University of Iceland. Her research focuses on the complexity of time specific to medieval Icelandic culture and society, as it is represented in a selection of Old Icelandic texts, including Íslendingabók and Íslendingasögur. She is currently preparing for publication an Italian translation of Áns saga bogsveigis, on which she previously worked as part of her MA thesis at Ca’Foscari University of Venice. MARION POILVEZ is a PhD candidate at the University of Iceland. She holds a BA and MA in Literature and Philosophy from the University of Western Brittany, and a MA in Medieval Icelandic Studies from the University of Iceland. She is currently writing a PhD dissertation entitled “Heroes and Fools: insular outlawry in medieval Iceland” under Torfi Tulinius' supervision. IAN R. NAPIER, PhD, is Senior Policy Adviser at the NAFC Marine Centre, University of the Highlands and Islands in Shetland, providing advice, information and assistance on management and policy issues to the local fishing industry. He works closely with Shetland's fisheries organisations, monitoring the state of the local fishing industry and the impacts of changes in management measures and other relevant factors. Ian has a keen interest in Shetland’s marine environment and maritime industries, and particularly in the history of the local fishing industry. SIMON CLARKE, PhD, is the Senior Lecturer in Archaeology at Shetland College, University of the Highlands and Islands, where he has been based for the last eighteen years. His past research specialism is in Iron Age and Roman period archaeology, but interests now extend from early humans to the archaeology of twentieth-century conflict. Longstanding interests include cross-cultural contact and group identity,

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Contributors

symbolism and ritual in archaeological deposits and the artefact assemblages they contain, and the interpretation of landscapes and architectural space by past societies. ANGELA WATT, PhD, joint conference organiser and editor, maintains an academic affiliation with the Centre for Nordic Studies, UHI. She is currently researching for her book “The Lighthouse Family of Scotland”, which focuses on Scottish lighthouse heritage. Angela has a varied set of interests, specifically cultural patterns, processes and products, with a particular focus on maritime history, identity and visual heritage. JENNY MURRAY is Curator of Collections at the Shetland Museum and Archives. She has a keen interest in Shetland history, especially archaeology and folklore. She has published on a range of material culture including Aamos Kirks. Her academic research includes the study of ritual deposition of wooden agricultural tools during the Iron Age in Shetland, and, more recently, the typology, design and construction methods of Late Bronze Age and Iron Age pottery. KIM BURNS lives in Orkney and recently completed a MLitt in Orkney and Shetland Studies at the Centre for Nordic Studies, University of the Highlands and Islands. She has worked in the twelfth-century St Magnus Cathedral in Kirkwall and is currently a Steward at Skara Brae Neolithic settlement. VICTORIA LESLEY RALPH holds a BA in Humanities (Icelandic Studies) from University College London. She is currently an MPhil/PhD student at the Department of Scandinavian Studies in the same institution. Victoria is researching the influence of Old Norse Literature on the Swedish author Selma Lagerlöf (1858-1940). Her project is entitled “Lagerlöf’s Kungahälla: Landscapes of War and Vistas of Peace: Old Norse inspired works from pacifist and feminist perspectives.” Research interests include how characters interact with textual constructions of landscape. ESTHER RENWICK has a background in archaeology and heritage interpretation. She has worked in museums around North East England and was a Research Officer for the Durham Castle and Cathedral World Heritage Site Management Plan. In 2006, Esther moved to the Shetland Islands and is currently writing up her PhD thesis “The Experience of Space and Place in World Heritage Site Management” with the University

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of the Highlands and Islands. Esther also co-ordinates the community group Archaeology Shetland which she co-founded in 2015. GAVIN PARSONS teaches at the Gaelic College in Skye, Sabhal Mòr Ostaig, University of the Highlands and Islands. His research interests include small-scale agriculture, local economies, maritime and boat culture, and links between Scotland and Norway. These are also practical interests as he is a crofter, and is involved in various projects aimed at invigorating the local economy and increasing awareness of traditional knowledge around boats and the land.

INDEX

Adam of Bremen, 50, 59, 60, 79, 227, 239 Alcatraz, 101 álfar, 19, 30 Alþingi, 34, 39, 45 Antarctic, 2 Archaeology, 5, 7, 123, 139, 152, 203, 213, 214, 224, 226, 229, 230, 231, 233, 234, 236, 243, 244, 245, 249, 250, 251, 253, 255 Arctic, 2, 3, 61 Argyll, 125, 216, 217, 219 Ari, 44, 46, 49 Ari the learned, 44, 46 Arons saga HjІrleifssonar, 101, 106 Atlantic Ocean, 1, 120, 121, 122 Atløy, 100 Baltic, 41, 46, 185, 190, 241 Barnhouse, 196, 197, 200, 204, 205, 207, 213, 230, 245 Barra, 161, 220, 225, 230 Bastøy, 101 Bergfinnr Skaftason, 39 Birsay, 176 boat, 5, 6, 11, 39, 65, 113, 114, 115, 119, 125, 126, 158, 159, 160, 170, 171, 215, 216, 221, 222, 223, 255 Bohuslän, 180, 181, 192, 229, 240 borders, 10, 11, 22 Breiðafjörður, 14, 38, 99 Bressay, 142, 145, 146, 150 Bridge of Walls, 129 British Isles, 1, 24, 45, 82, 140, 141, 142, 225, 228 Byzantium, 108 Caithness, 48, 67, 104, 105, 210, 245 Canada, 1

Canterbury, 37 Christian, 13, 23, 24, 32, 36, 37, 40, 52, 55, 58, 69, 77, 78, 81, 83, 98, 148, 182, 183, 184, 185, 186, 187, 188, 189, 190, 192, 242, 245, 249 Cuillins, 150 Damsay, 104 Danes, 45, 79, 233 death, 10, 11, 23, 24, 34, 35, 38, 39, 41, 65, 100, 107, 109, 133, 136, 138, 168, 174, 183, 185, 186, 188, 193, 231, 240 Delting, 158, 159, 248 Drangey, 80, 98, 102, 103 dwarf, 28, 88, 89 Earl Maddaðr, 104 Earl Páll, 104 Earl R۠gnvaldr, 105, 107 Edda, 30, 46, 52, 248 Edinburgh, 28, 138, 139, 148, 150, 153, 167, 168, 177, 178, 213, 214, 224, 225, 227, 228, 229, 230, 231, 232, 233, 235, 237, 241, 242, 243, 246, 247, 249, 251 Egils saga, 63, 64, 67, 70, 80, 93, 95, 100, 101, 111, 243, 245 Egilsay, 104 erotic, 21 Eshaness, 162, 163, 164, 165 exile, 57, 63, 66, 69, 70, 97, 98, 101, 106, 108, 109 Eyjafjörður, 83, 91 Eyrbyggja, 63, 67, 70, 80, 99, 101, 106, 111, 248 Færeyinga saga, 5, 44, 48, 52, 97, 98, 106, 107, 109, 111, 233, 236 Fair Isle, 116, 117, 148, 149, 150 Faroes, 1, 20, 48, 161

Northern Atlantic Islands and the Sea: Seascapes and Dreamscapes Faroese, 45, 48, 106 Fetlar, 158 fishing, 2, 5, 32, 35, 39, 40, 62, 65, 114, 115, 116, 120, 121, 154, 157, 158, 159, 160, 161, 166, 171, 208, 219, 220 fjörulalli, 13, 14, 15, 16, 27, 28 folklore, 4, 14, 15, 20, 21, 36, 144, 162, 169, 171, 172, 173, 174, 184 fornaldarsögur, 5, 83, 90, 91, 92 Foula, 115 Fraserburgh, 150 Frostaþinglög, 104 Gaelic, 6, 12, 215, 219, 222, 223, 224 Garðarshólmr, 94 ghosts, 10 giants, 85 Gísla saga, 94, 98, 100, 103, 108, 111, 185, 189, 250 Gloup, 11 Göteborg, 181 Grágás, 98, 104 Greenland, 2, 8, 45, 61, 101, 162, 247 Grettis saga, 63, 64, 70, 80, 94, 98, 102, 108, 110, 239 Guðmundar saga, 34, 35, 37, 41, 231, 238 Guðmundr Arason, 33, 35 Gulaþingslög, 104 haaf, 113, 114, 115, 119, 120, 123, 161 Hafmaður, 17 hafmenn, 13, 16, 17, 20, 27 Hålogaland, 45 Harald Finehair, 48 Harðar saga, 94, 98, 102, 108, 110, 250 Haukadalur, 100 Hauksbók, 36 Hebrideans, 45 Hebrides, 6, 37, 45, 48, 66, 67, 99, 101, 104, 105, 161, 218, 224, 243

257

Heimskringla, 93, 180, 181, 185, 191, 192, 193, 247, 248, 251 Herdla, 100 Hereward, 102 Hergilsey, 14, 99, 103 Hillswick, 165 Hólar, 33, 101 Holdbodi Hundason, 104 Hordaland, 64, 99 Hound-Turk, 22 Hrafnistumannasögur, 83, 90, 93 Hrafns saga Sveinbarnarsonar, 37 Hudson’s Bay, 171 huldre, 19 huldufólk, 19 Hvalfjörður, 99 Iceland, 1, 3, 4, 5, 6, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 18, 19, 21, 22, 24, 25, 27, 29, 30, 32, 33, 34, 35, 37, 38, 40, 41, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51, 52, 53, 55, 59, 60, 61, 62, 67, 68, 82, 83, 84, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99, 100, 101, 102, 103, 104, 105, 107, 108, 109, 110, 193, 227, 228, 229, 232, 235, 239, 240, 247, 248, 249, 250 insular, 4, 5, 43, 51, 55, 62, 70, 84, 85, 87, 89, 92, 97, 98, 103, 104, 106, 107, 108, 110 Insularity, 5, 54, 84 Ireland, 8, 18, 59, 61, 67, 68, 74, 126, 160, 178, 208, 213, 215, 216, 219, 225, 232, 243, 244, 248 Íslendinga saga, 101 Íslendingabók, 29, 41, 43, 44, 45, 50, 52, 53, 79, 94, 228, 235 Íslendingasögur, 5, 44, 46, 54, 62, 63, 66, 68, 69, 70, 82, 83, 85, 92, 94, 98, 99, 101 Islesburgh, 127, 128, 129, 130, 132, 134, 135, 136, 137, 138 Járnsíða, 104 Jómsvíkinga saga, 52, 110, 236 Jómsvíkings, 46, 47

258 Jónsbók, 104 Keddhontla, 176 Kilmartin, 125 Kintyre, 47, 125 Landnámabók, 17, 36, 41, 44, 49, 50, 51, 52, 53, 61, 62, 68, 79, 83, 93, 94, 101, 228, 232, 238, 244 landscape, 3, 10, 36, 69, 103, 105, 108, 126, 128, 129, 130, 135, 138, 139, 181, 182, 192, 196, 198, 199, 200, 207, 208, 210, 211, 213, 214, 230, 245, 249 Lerwick, 1, 2, 8, 122, 123, 138, 143, 167, 168, 178, 231, 234, 235, 238, 245, 246, 249 liminal, 4, 11, 20, 21, 22, 23, 25, 27, 54, 55, 56, 57, 68, 69, 70, 144, 166 Liminality, 4, 10, 11 Maeshowe, 196, 197, 198, 199, 203, 204, 213, 230, 245 magic, 23, 36, 48, 80, 103, 165, 166, 185 Magnúss saga, 38, 183, 192 manuscript, 34, 95, 192, 244 mara, 21 marbendill, 17, 18, 22, 28, 29 Marshall Islands, 121 martröll, 16 Mavis Grind, 3, 125, 126, 127, 130, 134, 135, 138, 231 Meðalland, 4, 12, 13 Middle Ages, 5, 34, 41, 43, 44, 52, 53, 54, 55, 58, 92, 93, 215, 226, 232, 236, 241, 244, 249 migratory legends, 12, 16, 20 miracles, 32, 34, 36, 39, 40 moder dy, 113 monster, 15, 16, 20 Moster, 64, 99 Muckle Flugga, 147, 243 Neolithic, 1, 3, 125, 126, 128, 129, 130, 133, 134, 135, 138, 139, 195, 196, 197, 198, 200, 208, 210, 213, 214, 220, 229, 230,

Index 232, 234, 237, 241, 242, 243, 244, 245 Nordic, 1, 5, 6, 11, 12, 17, 19, 20, 22, 25, 27, 28, 30, 40, 46, 53, 59, 70, 79, 90, 95, 236, 237, 238, 239, 240, 241, 244, 246, 248 Norn, 4, 113, 122, 123, 168, 238, 240 North Ronaldsay, 175 North Sea, 1, 19, 116, 119, 123, 125, 126, 129, 136, 138, 139, 154, 198, 215, 216, 229, 242, 249 Northmavine, 125 Norway, 1, 5, 6, 8, 17, 20, 21, 32, 39, 45, 47, 48, 50, 61, 63, 65, 66, 67, 70, 82, 86, 90, 92, 93, 97, 98, 99, 100, 101, 103, 104, 105, 106, 107, 108, 109, 110, 165, 181, 185, 187, 188, 214, 216, 217, 236, 250 ófreskjur, 15 Óláfr Tryggvason, 182, 184, 186, 188, 192, 193, 248 Óláfs saga Tryggvasonar, 182, 183, 185 Orkney, 3, 6, 20, 32, 38, 42, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 52, 67, 99, 101, 106, 108, 109, 133, 138, 139, 167, 168, 169, 170, 172, 177, 178, 179, 195, 196, 197, 198, 200, 204, 208, 210, 211, 213, 214, 216, 220, 227, 229, 230, 232, 233, 234, 237, 239, 241, 242, 243, 244, 245, 251 Orkneyinga saga, 5, 38, 41, 44, 46, 47, 48, 52, 97, 98, 104, 105, 106, 107, 109, 111, 177, 230, 235 outlawry, 5, 80, 87, 97, 98, 101, 103, 104, 105, 106, 108, 109 Öxney, 100 Pacific, 121, 123, 234 Peterhead, 158 Pirate, 15, 246 politics, 8, 91, 95, 227, 244 Quoyloo, 173

Northern Atlantic Islands and the Sea: Seascapes and Dreamscapes Reformation, 33, 162, 166 Ring of Brodgar, 133, 196, 197, 198, 199, 203, 204, 205, 206, 207, 208, 209, 210, 213, 214, 232 Rome, 38 Ronas Hill, 114 sækýr, 18, 19, 20, 22 Saint Magnús, 104, 108 saints, 32, 33, 34, 36 Saxaford, 147 Scandinavia, 24, 41, 52, 54, 55, 57, 58, 75, 78, 81, 82, 90, 93, 94, 95, 96, 138, 176, 191, 193, 224, 227, 230, 231, 232, 233, 236, 237, 238, 241, 243, 244, 245, 247, 249, 251 seal, 3, 4, 16, 17, 20, 21, 22, 27, 29, 32, 35, 36, 138 seascape, 3, 6, 108, 120, 182 Selkolla, 4, 35 Shetland, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 8, 11, 15, 19, 20, 39, 45, 46, 47, 48, 67, 101, 108, 109, 113, 114, 115, 116, 117, 119, 120, 121, 122, 123, 125, 126, 127, 129, 133, 138, 139, 142, 143, 145, 147, 148, 150, 154, 155, 158, 161, 162, 163, 165, 166, 167, 168, 169, 170, 172, 173, 175, 176, 178, 227, 229, 230, 231, 233, 234, 235, 237, 238, 239, 240, 241, 243, 245, 246, 247, 248, 249, 251 Shetlanders, 1, 2, 3, 20, 45, 162, 166, 171 shoreline, 11, 12, 13, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 27, 29, 209 sixareen, 114 Skagafjörður, 98, 102 Skálholt, 33, 35 Skara Brae, 196, 197, 202, 203, 204, 205, 209 Skarði, 4, 12, 13, 22, 23 Skeld, 156 Skeljakarl, 15

259

skógarmaðr, 98 skogsrå, 17, 21, 36 skrimsli, 15 Sneglu-Halla þáttur, 100, 101 Snorri Sturluson, 30, 46, 47, 52, 180, 182, 191, 192, 193, 227, 247, 248 Solund, 100 St Magnus, 32, 38, 42, 109, 227 St Ninian’s Isle, 162, 168, 247 St Patrick, 36 St Þorlákr, 33, 34, 39 Stonehenge, 198 Stones of Stenness, 196, 197, 198, 199, 203, 204, 205, 206, 213, 230 Sturlubók, 36 Sturlung age, 101, 104, 106 Sturlunga saga, 34, 37, 41, 237, 239 Suðurey, 100 Sullom Voe, 125, 126, 130, 134, 135, 136 Sumburgh, 125, 138, 150, 151 supernatural, 10, 17, 20, 22, 27, 70, 144, 177, 187, 192 superstition, 14, 154, 156, 160, 163, 166 Sveinn, 104, 105, 183 Sweden, 21, 24, 181 Swedes, 45 Tangwick, 165 Thómas saga, 38 Þorbj۠rn, 101, 105 Þórisdalr, 103 Þorsteins saga hvíta, 100, 101 Tierra del Fuego, 101 Udal, 104 UK, 1, 2, 6, 79, 179, 196, 208, 212, 237 Unst, 123, 147, 162, 243 valkyrjur, 21, 22 Vestmanneyjar, 101 Viking, 1, 6, 8, 30, 32, 41, 43, 46, 52, 65, 94, 182, 184, 186, 188, 192, 193, 216, 217, 218, 220, 223, 224, 225, 226, 227, 231,

260 232, 235, 238, 239, 241, 244, 248, 251 Viking Age, 1, 8, 41, 226, 241, 244 Völundarkviða, 21 whale, 27, 32 women, 21, 28, 36, 85, 102, 159, 161, 162, 165, 166, 173, 175,

Index 180, 181, 185, 186, 189, 190, 191, 192 World War II, 125 Yell, 4, 11, 125, 158 Yorkshire, 130